


Born Free and Everywhere in Chains

by EnricoDandolo



Series: History is our mother [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blood Magic, Crime Fighting, F/F, Footnotes, Long Shot, MCIS, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnricoDandolo/pseuds/EnricoDandolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spectre is haunting Thedas -- the spectre of mage freedom. The eyes of the world are on the city of Kirkwall and the blog of the mysterious Anders mage. Enchanter Bethany Hawke doesn't read his blog and would prefer to stay out of politics, but as she and Ser Cullen investigate a series of gruesome ritual murders, and as her sister presses her to elope to Tevinter with her, she may not have a choice ... [Long. Now with footnotes and an appendix by Fr. Genitivi.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Born Free and Everywhere in Chains

**Author's Note:**

> Clocking in at just under 33k words, this is the longest single piece I've ever written. It might just be the longest one shot I've ever seen, but I couldn't bring myself to break it up. 
> 
> Throughout the text, there are hyperlinks. Clicking on them will take you to the corresponding endnote, and there is a link at the endnote to take you back to the text. Please tell me if this is inconvenient, I've got a few ideas on how to implement this. Also please note the appendix in chapter two, which is a brief preface by Brother Ferdinand Genitivi that should explain in very rough terms what has been going on in Thedas for the last four centuries, and give some background to the setting of this modern AU.
> 
> Incest warning applies, but the pairing is not a focus of the work.

Born Free and Everywhere in Chains

 

_“ **A SPECTRE** is haunting Thedas – the spectre of Mage Freedom. All the powers of old Thedas have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise that spectre: Divine and Empress, Dalish and Templars, Orlesian nobles and Free Marcher policemen. Where is the Circle that has not been accused of harbouring Maleficars? Where is the Free Mage that has not been accused of practicing blood magic? Two things result from this fact:_

_I.)_ _The Free Mages are already considered a threat by all the powers of old Thedas._

_II.)_ _It is high time that Free Mages should openly, in the face of the whole world, declare their intentions, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Mage Freedom with a manifesto of the movement itself …”_

 

– from _Manifesto of the Free Mages_ , by ‘The Anders Mage’[1]

She realised she was chewing on her lower lip again. Damn, she needed to stop doing that. With a glance at the notepad in her hand, Hawke returned her attention to the task lying before her, cold and lifeless.

The corpse was that of a young elven woman, barely out of her teens, it seemed, with long blonde hair and a narrow face. Her gaze lingered on her face longer than she would normally have needed to take her notes – anything to avoid looking at the horrific gash across the girl’s throat. Her neck, chin and torso down to the waist were covered in blood. Three years of experience had done nothing to ease the queasiness she felt at the sight of blood.[2] Maker, she hated cases like this.

Still, she reasoned, it could be worse: at least the murder motive was clear. The killer had redecorated the measly little motel room with glyphs drawn in blood. The largest circle surrounded the elf girl’s body, a gory mandala of elegantly cursive writing in a script and language she could not decipher and arcane symbols, many of which she knew to be ill-boding. She was anything but an expert in runology, but she took a few snapshots with her phone and sent them to a friend of hers who’d researched ritual magic and knew a thing or two about glyphs.[3]

Behind her, she could hear the quiet voice of her handler interrogating the motel’s staff. She used his momentary absence to cast a few quick spells, some of which she had developed herself. Others were passed around amongst her colleagues under their guardians’ vigilant eyes. While there was nothing precisely illegal about them, she did not trust Ser Cullen to know the difference between them and _genuine_ blood magic. She waited a few seconds for the spell to do its work, then jotted down her findings. Nothing forensics wouldn’t discover on their own, eventually, but considerably faster. Still, the results were disappointing.

She continued her work for a few minutes, trying to trace the magical signatures the murderer had left in the Veil. After three years investigating magical crime, she knew what to look for – the unique ways complex magical rituals altered the fabric of a place and reshaped the Veil – but she had as little success as before. There was only the faintest hint of manipulation. Every strand in the fabric of reality lay natural and orderly. It was obvious that, whoever had done this, was no amateur. For a second, she had to fight back a twisted sense of pride at the culpable apostate’s skill. When she heard clicking footsteps behind her, the grin disappeared from her face.

“Found anything yet, Enchanter Hawke?” As always, Ser Cullen appeared unmoved by the more grisly aspects of their work.

“Nothing beyond the obvious, at least so far,” Bethany admitted. “We’re dealing with an experienced Maleficar, by the looks of it. He’s hiding his tracks well. Would you mind opening a window?”

He did her the courtesy, taking care not to step into the blood circle on the ground. “Didn’t get much from the staff, either. We’ve got a name – Shari Neranni, though that may be a false name. Checked in late last night and paid for one night in cash. She was alone, and the receptionist doesn’t remember anyone else coming in after her.”

“You can’t actually see the entrance to the parking lot from the reception, I think,” Bethany recalled. “And I didn’t see any security cameras outside. Still, no signs of forced entry – I’d say Shari was expecting her murderer.”

“I agree. Do you think you can find anything else?” She shook her head. “Then let’s get going, see what we can do with the name.”

Bethany rose to her feet and tip-toed across the corpse and the ritual glyph to join her handler. When she stumbled and instinctively reached for the TV for support, she found her fingers stuck to the furniture. Wiping her hand on her jeans, she grimaced. “Why can’t we ever go anywhere nice …”

Cullen briefly flashed a grin. “Blame the evil blood mages, not me. Want to grab a bite for dinner before we report in?”

She wondered how he could even _think_ about food while they were still surrounded by the stench of drying blood, with a dead body on the floor. “Not feeling very hungry right now, but I don’t mind if you get something for yourself. Thought you’d eat at the Gallows, though.”

“Not today. Today’s is chili Par Vollen style at the officers’ mess, I’ll pass on that.” They left the crime scene as the first investigators from Kirkwall’s regular police began to arrive. She could feel some glares on her and, to a lesser extent, on her handler, but she bore it without bashing an eyelash. No guard officer liked to have an investigation taken from him, least of all by a mage. If she’d been alone, she supposed, she might have hidden her identity. Cullen’s highly conspicuous deep red, black and golden Templar uniform, as well as his insistence that she carry her staff (nylon-based hard polymer, fully collapsible to be worn at the hip – her apprentices liked to call it her ‘magesaber’), however, made that impossible.[4]

They got in Cullen’s car without stopping to talk to the investigators. When she had first joined the Kirkwall Circle’s Magical Crimes Investigation Service, the lack of cooperation had frustrated her. At this point, however, it was clear that the police were not willing to listen to a mage’s advice – and that . “So, let’s go over what we have,” she tried to distract herself. “No fingerprints, no DNA, no magical signatures. I’d say we’re not dealing with a first-timer.”

Cullen nodded without looking at her. “I agree. What about the glyphs?”

“I’m having a friend look over them. I … I think there is more to this, though. The Veil was strong at the motel, by Kirkwall standards at least. Whatever the killer did, he used Shari’s blood to fuel a greater ritual in another place or time.”

Her handler paled a little, which was odd. He rarely lost his composure. “Maker,” he muttered under his breath. “More victims, then?”

She said nothing, for there was nothing she could say.

 

 

_“In last week’s post, I responded to the claims that the Ostwick bomber carried a copy of the manifesto on his body. To summarise, it doesn’t matter whether he did or not, because he clearly never read it. As a movement, we accept that violence may be the only way to gain our freedom, but we will NEVER target innocents or use blood magic to do so. Now, you guys raised some interesting points in the comments. Let me respond to some of these …”_

– from _Five Reasons the Templars Aren’t the Greatest Threat to Mage Freedom_ , posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

The dwarf gasped in pain and surprise when she lifted him by his collar and slammed him against the wall. People tended to underestimate her strength. “Now listen here, you little twat,” she snarled at him, “you know the man in there? The healer? Friend of mine. I do _not_ take kindly to Carta thugs trying to shake down my friends.” Sweat appeared on his tattooed brow and in his fashionably-trimmed beard. “So if you know what’s good for you … don’t come here again. Clear?”

“C-crystal.”

“Good. Now bugger off.”

Hawke dropped him and watched the Carta dwarf crawl away. Laughter echoed through the dark and damp hallway. “You’re getting soft, Hawke,” Varric teased. “A year ago, you’d have thought up some creatively grisly fate for the boy. Don’t tell me all those group therapy sessions are actually having an effect on you.”

That made her chuckle. “What can I say, I’m re-examining my life. Wet biscuits and cold coffee really opened my eyes.”

“To the virtues of non-violence, patience and charity?”

“To how much I hate group therapy sessions.”

An exasperated groan from the other side of the door interrupted their banter. “Could you please keep your voices down for a minute? I’m trying to concentrate here.”

Varric laughed. “You heard the man, Hawke, back away: Blondie needs quiet to make the magic happen.”

Smirking, she leant against the wall. The corridor was barely a metre wide, and the paint was flaking off the wall. It was colder than it had any right to be, and she was shivering in her worn-out old Royal Fereldan Army greatcoat.[5] Worse, they were too far underground for her phone to connect. Fuck, she hated this part of Darktown.

A few moments later, the door opened and a woman of indeterminable age and her son came out, nodding to Hawke and Varric in what passed for a polite greeting in Darktown before they returned into their miserable lives. “You can come in now,” Anders called. He sounded exhausted.

Hawke found the mage standing by the broken sink washing his hands. The sleeves of his lab coat and the black turtleneck he wore below were rolled up, baring the griffon tattoo in blue ink on his left biceps. His carved oaken staff leant against the wall, just within arm’s reach. Dark shadows surrounded his eyes. Understandable, Hawke thought, looking around the large, open room which served as Anders’ living quarters, study and surgery all at once. A worn mattress and a small, loud fridge with a cooking plate on top were the only personal comforts her friend had. Were it not for the piles of books and notes strewn around the room and the impromptu operating table at its centre, one might have mistaken Anders for a squatter. “Poor boy,” he commented as they entered, “Pneumonia can still kill, in Darktown conditions. I did what I could, but it was too little, too late.”

“Did you tell them?”

“I’ll have to tell the mother, I suppose. But not with the boy present.” He sighed. “I don’t know on whom it will be harder: him, or her. No mother deserves to lose her children.”

Hawke shrugged. “Only because that bitch Meredith doesn’t have any.”

Her friend didn’t laugh. Taking off the lab coat, he walked over to one pile of books, searching for some volume. “What was that earlier?”

She shared a glance with Varric. “Nothing. Just some thug who didn’t know what he was getting into. He won’t come again.”

“I hope so. Secrecy is of the utmost importance for what we do.”

“We should strike against them. If we can get the circled mages to rise up …”

“No. We are still too weak to move openly against the enemy. If we rise up now, they’ll crush us underfoot. It’s a … difficult lesson to learn. I – Justice – want nothing more than to free our brethren in the Circles. Having to wait is an alien concept if all you know is the timelessness of the Fade.”

Varric chuckled. “Do you realise how weird you sound when you talk about your glowing problem?”

“Don’t call him that. Justice is a friend, and part of me. In your terms, I suppose you could call him my muse.”

“Ah, I see. So it’s _Justice_ who’s to blame for those clumsy lines in your manifesto.”

“Clumsy?”

The dwarf cleared his throat and declaimed: _“The mages have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Mages of Thedas, unite!_ I mean, c’mon, Blondie, that’s no way to win an audience.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s catchy,” Hawke commented, somewhat amused.

“Right. Simple Common for simple people.”

“But no one reads stuff like that. Here, how about …”

“Boys, stop fighting. Actually, I wanted to tell you – Isabella called from Minrathous.”

Anxiety showed on Anders’ face. “Did something go wrong?”

“Don’t worry. Our people have safely disembarked and given over to your contact in the Minrathous Circle. They’re out of our hands now.”

“Thank the Maker … I hope they’ll be safe there. They’ve never known a world outside the Kirkwall Circle, until now.”

“Yeah, well, at least dealing with insane magisters will be a change of scenery from dealing with insane Templars. Speaking of ‘safe’, do we have a place and time for the next meeting yet? I’d offer you the Hanged Man, but we had a Templar in three days straight.”

Hawke frowned. Damn, she’d have to find somewhere else to enable her habit. There were plenty of bars less seedy than the Hanged Man, but most of those had blacklisted her. The Rose, maybe? There was a girl there who looked a bit like _her …_ “You think they’re scouting us out for a raid?”

“Naah. If I know my people, he’s just drowning his sorrows. I’ve already started looking for an alternative, though – Daisy offered her house, as a matter of fact. I’ll have to talk her out of it …”

After that, Hawke kind of drifted off. She tired of these discussions, of talk of safe houses and manifestoes. She had been a leader to her friends when they had been just one more gang on the streets of Kirkwall, defending their turf against the Carta and rival gangs. Fights had been frequent, and more often than not ended with the opposing forces wiped out. She had been _good_ at killing, even before coming to the Free Marches. Still was. But this – the politics and the organising, the underground railroad to Tevinter and the manifesto? Not her domain. Until Anders, who had naturally and without opposition[6] assumed the role of leader of their dwindling band of comrades, decided to strike against their enemy, she was a soldier without an army, or a war.

The therapy didn’t help much. It hadn’t been her idea, to begin with; Bethany had talked her into it. Marian had changed at some point after coming to Kirkwall, or so her sister had claimed, with the implication that it was a change for the worse. Her sister and her therapist both had diagnosed her with PTSD, or Taint-shock, or something else in that direction. She had stopped listening at that point. What did they know? The war hadn’t been the problem, had never been the problem. It may have been depressing, mowing down the hordes of ‘spawn mindlessly charging their guns, but it hadn’t been traumatic, not even when she’d had to deal with Carver catching the Taint the only way she knew how.[7] With him dead, mother safe in Lothering, and Bethany too far away to tempt her, the weeks leading up to Ostagar had been a relief. Amidst death and Blight, she had _lived._

Hawke liked to think that the reason she had gone to war in the first place had been to protect Bethany, and the rest of her family. To protect Bethany, and give her the life she deserved, she had begun to wrestle control of Kirkwall from the Carta and the gangs, and to protect Bethany she had taken her with her into the Deep Roads. Funny how that had worked out. Everything had been going splendidly (well, except for having to stop to brutally maul Varric’s brother along the way), until they had run across what she thought had been a dwarven operation to cull the Darkspawn numbers.[8] Bethany had not gotten her gas mask on in time. Without regard for the consequences, Hawke had pressed them onwards in forced marches until they reached the surface and got her sister to a hospital. The Templars had arrested her from her sickbed.

Oh, she was going to make those bastards pay for what they were doing to Bethany. Her sister _claimed_ to be happy in the Circle, but Hawke knew that for a lie. There was no such thing as a comfortable prison. And they were going to pay equally for keeping them apart, but just close enough to yearn for each other.

“Thedas to Hawke, Thedas to Hawke, over.” Startled, she looked down at Varric. Her friend seemed concerned. “You alright, girl? You were spacing out again.”

She blushed a little. “Sorry. Just … remembered something. Anyway, you were saying?”

Anders cleared his throat. “Right. Hawke, I would like you to talk to Athenril. If she raises her fees again as she threatened, we’ll have to find a new smuggler, security risks be damned …”

 

 

_“At their general assembly in Cumberland last Wednesday, representatives of the Fraternity of Libertarians officially distanced themselves from our cause. Our demands (the same freedoms owed to any other sentient being) go too far, they claim. Our methods (the only ones left to us) are excessive, they accuse. They are hypocrites. Our goals do not differ from those every Libertarian secretly desires, and I can only assume that the sole reason they do not join our ranks is because they are too comfortable as leashed Chantry lapdogs …”_

– from _On recent events: complacency and cowardice in the Circles,_ posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

With time, even the most minute actions had become routine. She slipped out of her coat, made coffee, checked her emails and turned on the news. Bethany knew that some of her peers preferred not to keep abreast of what was happening on the outside. She thought that was foolish; after all, it was not like the Circle was not part of Thedas. She had chosen her ‘cell,’ if the spacious three-room flat could be called that, with that in mind: while the suites looking out to the sea were generally in higher demand due to the noise and stench from the city’s harbour, her windows went out towards Kirkwall.[9]

Ella had replied to her inquiry about the ritual glyphs, saying that she did not recognise them, but promising to look into it. Bethany frowned. That was unfortunate, the glyphs had been their only real clue. “ _… has refused to comment. The government of Orzammar has been sharply criticized by Ferelden party leaders, who say the continued presence of dwarven armed forces in the country is ‘blatantly imperialist’. Three years after the end of the Blight at the Battle of Denerim, five dwarven armoured divisions including three battalions Legion of the Dead have yet to return underground. In an open letter to both nations’ leaders, Grand Cleric Elemena of Denerim and queen-consort and Warden-Commander Cousland have urged for a diplomatic solution._ ” She shuddered a little. So soon after the Blight, and already her homeland was veering back to war. Had Ferelden not suffered enough?

The coffee was ready. Bethany had half a mind to offer some to the Templar on duty on the corridor, then remembered that they weren’t allowed to accept food or drink from their charges. _There has to be something we missed_ , she thought while she drank. _First rule of forensics, the culprit_ always _leaves a trace. Magical crime is no different. Maybe he left some traces beyond the Veil …?_ Somehow she doubted that Ser Cullen would let her enter the Fade to look for evidence. It was a long shot, anyway. That left the victim. There had been no signs of struggle, and the motel personnel had not noticed anything. Had Shari Neranni expected her murderer? Perhaps if they talked to her family … She found herself chewing on her lower lip again. Damn it.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. “Enchanter Hawke?,” a voice said from the other side. Ser Kennan, she reminded herself. “There is a visitor for you. Your sister. Will you receive her?”

That was a surprise. She hadn’t seen Marian in weeks, and hadn’t expected her. “O…of course,” Bethany quickly said. “Has she been cleared?” She still remembered vividly the time her sister had tried to bring her sidearm into the Gallows.

“Not yet. We’ll bring her to you once she’s through.”

That gave her a few minutes to prepare herself. She turned off the radio, tidied up her desk, refreshed her make-up, and smoothed out her clothes. Then, she sat behind the desk, trying very hard to look busy, and waited.

Marian Hawke, as a rule, did not enter rooms: she stormed in them. Today was no exception. She gave poor Ser Kennan a hateful glare, slammed the door shut, leaned over the desk and, before she even had time to greet her sister, pressed a long, forceful kiss on Bethany’s lips. [10]

She blinked once, twice, thrice, then they parted. “Bad day?,” she asked, slightly breathless. Marian’s kiss had tasted strongly of liquor, she noted – the Hanged Man’s signature mystery brew, if she were to place it.

Marian smirked and sat on the edge of her desk. “No more. How are you? Have the Templars been giving you trouble?”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine. Are you alright?”

“I’ve missed you.”

Bethany noted that Marian had not answered the question, but decided not to press the matter. “You could visit more often, you know,” she pointed out instead. “It’s not like Knight-Commander Stannard can just forbid _you_ of all people from visiting her sister.”

“I don’t like the Gallows. This place … always sends a shiver down my back. I shouldn’t be here. _You_ shouldn’t be here. Just say the word, and we can …”

Bethany raised a hand. “Hold it right there. We’ve talked about this.” She sighed. “Look, sister, I know this may be hard for you to understand, but I’m … content in the Circle. It’s a place of learning, of study – a place where I don’t have to hide. I’m a mage, Marian. I’m not like – can’t be like Anders, or Merrill. For me … the Circle is where I belong.”

Her sister leaned over and took her hands. “It needn’t be, Bethany.” In an urgent whisper, she continued: “I promise, we can get you out of here. We’ve done this before, we’ve got a good operation set up. We can make sure no one is hurt, if you’d prefer that, not even the Templars, we’ve got a collaborator in the Order. We can go north to Tevinter together, or maybe Rivain, where you can live free and …”

“No.”

“Come on, at least give it some thought.”

“I _have_ thought about it, sis. Quite a bit, actually. I’ve made that choice. Please, respect that. It’s better this way, for all of us.”

Marian sighed. “Father would hate to see you like this. He always fought for his freedom, and bugger the consequences.”

Maybe it was inconsiderate of father to force his family to run away with him, Bethany thought, but she did not want to talk ill of him. She owed him so much, after all. “I had hoped you would be happier,” she quietly said, staring at her hands in Marian’s. “Relieved. You’re being too hard on yourself. I worry …”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I … I know that. I worry about you all the same, because you’re my sister, and because I love you. How’s your therapy going? You are still going, right?”

“I don’t need it.”

“Sister, we’ve talked about this …”

“I don’t need it! I’m fine, Bethany. No matter what may have happened, I still love you. That’s all that should matter.”

“You’re not _fine,_ Marian. Just last month Aveline called to tell me you had gotten into a drunken brawl with some of her officers, knocked them out, then went through their pockets. That’s not like you, sister!”

Marian blinked. “I don’t remember that.”

“You get in a fight, almost _kill_ someone and loot their body, and you don’t even remember it? What do you even _call_ that?!”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Tuesday?”

“See, and that’s why you should continue going to the therapy.”

“I don’t _need_  …” Marian gave an exasperated sigh. “Enough of this, I didn’t come here to argue.” Before she could reply, the elder Hawke slipped around the desk to kiss her, drawing Bethany into a close embrace. Almost instinctively, Bethany returned the kiss, and before she knew what was happening, Marian was had her pinned down on the desk, her hand fumbling with her trousers’ waistband. Oh, how she had missed that closeness – the rough physicality of her sister’s attack, the hotness of her body over hers, every touch a reminder of mortal danger … it took her a moment to remember the resolution she had made after Marian’s last visit. Still, she was very much tempted to forget it, take a few hours to enjoy her sister’s love … _Damn it, Bethany. Think unsexy thoughts. Divine Justinia naked on a cold day, Divine Justinia naked on a cold day …_ That did the job.

“Stop,” she whispered through Marian’s hungry kisses, gently pushing her away. “Let’s … let’s not do this, for a while.”

She couldn’t tell which of them was more disappointed. “What do you mean?” Bewilderment and betrayal were manifest in Marian’s sapphire eyes as she drew back. “Just … just so I get this. Are you … breaking up with me?”

“No! Maker, no. No, I’m not breaking up with you. Let’s just … let’s just take a break, alright?”

“Bollocks, that’s the same thing. I  thought you loved me.”

Bethany sighed and averted her gaze. “Maker, how do I put this … I do love you, sister, more than anyone or anything in the world. Which is why I don’t want you to destroy yourself like this. The drinking, the fights – you could be _so much more_ , if you only tried …”

“More than what?,” her sister sharply interrupted her. “How about you tell me what you really think of me?”

“Please, sister, just look at yourself! You don’t joke around anymore like you used to, and every time I see you you’re half-drunk. Mum says she barely sees you anymore because you spend most nights drinking and picking fights in Darktown. Can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?”

“How about you spell it out for me?,” Marian growled. She had risen to her feet and was now pacing around Bethany’s office like a caged wyvern.

_Maker, grant me strength._ “I think … I think you’re acting like a drunken thug, and not like the amazing woman you used to be, the woman I love.”

Marian’s porcelain-like face was now disfigured by a scowl. Someone, Bethany realised, was going to have their bones broken later today. When she spoke, every word was carefully laid out and pronounced with the silverite precision of someone trying with all their might to avoid a violent outburst. “It seems you know nothing about me, sister.” With these words, Marian turned on her heel and stormed out of her office. Bethany rose to follow, only to find her own door slammed in her face.

For a moment, she froze in shock. That had … not worked out as she had intended. Damn it, why hadn’t she been more tactful about it … Then, a knock on the door. She held her breath. Had Marian returned? “Um, Enchanter Hawke? Everything alright in there?” Ser Kennan.

She felt like crying.

 

 

_“I would like to respond to several points you made. Firstly, you are correct in pointing out that Episode 4x22 already had Fluffypaws and Whisker Shines arguing about the issue, but it is important to remember that that was almost two seasons_ before _Meridia turned evil. So the context is completely different. Secondly, and this is crucial, it must clearly be obvious to anykitten  that the scene in question (15:30-15:49 in Episode 9x02) is a self-explanatory allegory on the Movement of Free Mages (AND NO SAYING THIS DOES NOT CONSTITUTE A BANNABLE OFFENSE)…”_

– posted on _Official Little Kitten: Friendship Wardens Fan Forum_ by justiceforeverykitten

 

 

The next day, she was back on the job. Bethany had pleaded that her apprentices’ instructions had fallen short in the past few weeks, but Cullen had insisted that they continue their inquiries while the killer’s trail was still hot. Their only lead in the case of the murder of Shari Neranni was her name and an address in the Lowtown Alienage – a dingy, run-down apartment building, with thrown-in windows and graffiti smeared across the walls. From the top floors one probably could, with some effort, spy the large tree in the Alienage’s centre – Bethany tried and failed to remember the elven name for it. “Lovely place,” Cullen commented as they ascended the stairs to the building’s fifth floor, where the landlord had begrudgingly pointed them after the Templar had flashed his badge. The elevator was broken, and likely had been for some time.

“Hmm.”

“You’re being awfully quiet today, Hawke. Something on your mind?”

“Just … just the case. I’m still wondering about what kind of ritual the killer is attempting. How many more victims he will need.”

“Concerning. I’d hoped to have an analysis of the glyphs from your friend by now.”

“Nothing yet, but she’s looking.”

Cullen used the landlord’s key to unlock the apartment’s door. A kitchen and eating area, a bathroom, living room, miniscule balcony, bedroom. The flat was small bordering on tiny, the furniture cheap and obviously used, but everything was clean and tidy – a rather welcome change from their usual destinations.

“Looks like Shari lived alone,” she commented from the bathroom as they began to scour the rooms for anything that might seem out of place or shed light on the girl’s last few days. “No parents, no boyfriend, no flatmates. No one who would have noticed if she went missing.”

“We could question the neighbours,” Cullen suggested from the bedroom. “The Alienage is more tight-knit than the rest of Lowtown. Still … found something. A calendar. Empty, though.”

“She probably used her phone,” Bethany suggested, glancing at a phone charger in a living room socket.

“And the killer likely disposed of it. Certainly wasn’t at the motel. There’s a uniform here … looks like she worked as a waitress at a Qun Qunari’s Cheesehouse franchise.”[11]

“It’s a nice apartment for the job.”

“She may have worked two jobs. I’m having the City Guard have a look, anyway. The more we know about the victim …” Cullen’s phone rang. “Excuse me, I should take this. Tormen, is that you? How’s … a boy? Wow, I mean … congratulations! Have you …”

To give him some space, Bethany stepped out on the balcony and checked her messages. It occurred to her how little she actually knew about the man she was working with day by day. Cullen was not one for personal discussions, at least not with a mage. A bit of a shame, really – in some ways, the Templar reminded her of Carver, at least the Carver from before father’s death. In fact …

“Bethany? Bethany, is that you? Oh, it is you! By the Creators, it’s so good to see you!”

With no little surprise she looked up from her phone. A young elven woman had stepped out on the neighbouring balcony, wearing a deep green summer dress and little else despite the rainy Harvestmere weather, apart from intricate tattoos inscribed on her broadly smiling face. “Merrill? What … what are you doing here?” For a second, a terrible suspicion clouded her mind, but she discarded it as quickly as it had come to her. _Merrill, an evil murdering insane blood mage? Don’t be absurd. She’s the sweetest, least murdering-est insane blood mage that ever was._

“Oh, a neighbour asked me to water her flowers while she was away, says she doesn’t have time to do that with her clients here. Must be nice, working at home. What about you? Is Shari a friend of yours? Oh, wait, they don’t allow you to visit your friends, do they? Unless it’s really, really important. Um, I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned that I’ll shut up now.”

Bethany gave her a lenient smile. “It’s fine, Merrill. It’s good to see you. You said you knew Shari?”

“Not very well. There’s so many people in the Alienage. Haven’t seen her in a while, though, maybe she moved away? Is that why you’re here, are you moving in her old apartment?”

“Er, no. Look, Merrill, Shari is … she’s in a bit of trouble, and if possible I’d like to ask you a few questions about her.”

The elf’s eyes lit up. “You mean, like an interrogation? Sure! I didn’t know the City Guard employed us mages, though. Unless there’s apostates in the guard. Though I suppose then they wouldn’t be apostates, because the guard would know about them. Or does it only count if the Templars are looking for you?”

Cullen had ended his phone call and stepped out to join her on the balcony. “Sorry for that, Hawke, my sister …”

“Oooooooooh!” Merrill had clasped her hands to her cheeks and was gleefully looking back and forth between her and Ser Cullen, a bright light in her eyes. “Oooooh,” she repeated. Bethany and Cullen exchanged a look, Bethany shrugged. “I get it, I get it! The two of you are moving in together, a mage and a Templar! Good Mythal, that’s so romantic!”

Ser Cullen gave a light cough. “Enchanter Hawke … you know this … elf?”

She blushed a little. Merrill could be … peculiar. “Ser Cullen, this is a friend of mine, Merrill Sabrae. Merrill, I’d like to introduce you to Knight-Captain Ser Cullen Rutherford. And to make this perfectly clear, there’s nothing of the sort going on between us.”

“I’d like to emphasise the last bit,” Cullen added, looking everywhere but at the two mages.

“Oh. So you’re not …?”

“No, dear.”

“Okay.” Merrill’s enthusiasm deflated like a pierced balloon, though the smile quickly returned to her face. “So, how can I help you, Bethany?”

“Right. That. First of all, when did you see Shari for the last time?”

Merrill had to think for a moment. Well, she _had_ said that the two of them hadn’t been particularly close. “Um, I think I saw her on the Wednesday market last week. That’s … four days ago. She didn’t stop to talk, though. In fact, I don’t think she was talking to anyone. She seemed rather … rather distracted?”

“I see. Merrill, do you know if Shari had any close family? Any close friends? A boyfriend, maybe?”

“Maybe. She never _looked_ lonely. I’m sorry I’m not being more help.”

“That’s quite alright,” Cullen offered. “Do you know anyone who might know more? I know how clichéd this must sound, but it’s literally a matter of life and death.”

“Ooh, how exciting.” Merrill didn’t seem to take the interrogation any more seriously, which was a bit puzzling. Then, Bethany realised that going to the market probably counted as a matter of life and death for the people running with her sister. At least the Dalish was thinking hard, now. “Um, you could talk to the neighbours, I guess, but I don’t know anyone in specific. Shari’s only moved here pretty recently, I think, so she wouldn’t have many friends nearby. Unless her neighbours were a really friendly sort, that is. And not as terribly busy as mine, either …”

Cullen cleared his throat. “Alright, thank you for your information, ma’am. Hawke, I’m having another look through the apartment.”

“Ah, sure. Give me a minute.” There was another thing she could ask Merrill, she had realised, but that was not a discussion for Cullen’s ears. Or anyone’s, really. She waited until Cullen had returned to the flat’s bedroom before turning back to Merrill. “Shari was found dead in a motel yesterday,” she bluntly told her. “Murdered by magic. Her blood had been used to fuel a runic ritual of sorts. I was hoping you might know more about it.”

As she said that, Merrill’s face underwent a remarkable transformation. Her smile disappeared, replaced first by shock, then by worry, and finally by grave focus. “I see,” she said, “Do you have a picture of the glyphs? I am no expert on runology, but I might be able to understand what their purpose is.”

Bethany opened the pictures she had made at the crime scene and handed Merrill her phone. “Runic rituals are dangerous, even by ritual standards,” the elf explained, “I very rarely use them, myself. If you botch a normal spell or ritual, you can usually interrupt it before it causes too much damage. But a glyph, whether for a ritual or simple enchanting, only becomes magical at the very end, when it is imbued with … ah, _seranna_ , I don’t know the human word. The real word would be _elgar’nal’assalin_ , but I suppose that doesn’t help you much.”

“I get the idea. So clever people make sure they get their glyphs exactly right before activating them? Hence human mages continue to use elven formulae rather than experiment with new wordings in Common.”

“Very good, _lethallan._ You must have studied the matter. Now, just a moment …”

Merrill returned her attention to the photograph on Bethany’s phone, holding it close to her eyes to make out the tiny details in the bloody circle drawn around Shari Neranni’s corpse. “Huh,” she made after a while. “That can’t be right. Wait, I’ll check again.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just some … doesn’t matter. This bit here – the core part of the text – seems to say _hal’elgarna hanell el-nelohim alam,_ but that can’t be what he meant. If it read _hal’elgar nahhanarel el-nelohim alam,_ it would make a bit more sense – that would read ‘I summon the spirit that guards the realms of solitude’, which is a fairly well-documented Spirit of Freedom that is known to be amenable to requests from the oppressed. I’ve not dealt with it myself, but they say it was summoned at least five times since the Towers Age. Possibly earlier, I’ve seen a _fascinating_ Middle Dalish tablet in the National Archives at Halamshiral that alludes to the venerable Master Sha’illa dealing with it to fight his apprentice Aneitheral … but I suppose that doesn’t interest you.”[12]

“So you think the murderer made … what, a grammar mistake?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Keeper Marethari’s knowledge of our ancient language is very lacking, and there’s a lot that even I don’t know. And I’m an authority on it.”

Bethany frowned. The glyph had been active when they’d found the body. Magic had been wrought upon it, fuelled by Shari Neranni’s blood. “So … what _does_ it mean?”

“The glyph?” Merrill had another look at the photograph. “I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense. If it has a meaning, I don’t know it. Could be anything – maybe it summons an army of angry spirits, maybe it transfigures every teapot in Kirkwall into a fluffy griffon.”

Bethany raised her hand to her brow. She didn’t know which possibility was more unnerving. “So basically, it’s highly likely _something_ is going to happen, but we have no idea what; and if the killer realises that his demon friend isn’t appearing, he’s going to keep murdering because he’ll think he needs more power? Lovely.”

“I know, right? Hehe. And Anders thinks _I’m_ careless … though I wouldn’t say no to a pet griffon.”

 

 

_[Justítìa has logged in]_

_[Guild] Justítìa: hey all_

_[Guild] Justítìa: sorry I’m late, forgot to put out milk for the cats_

_[Guild] boom-headshot: evening_

_[Guild] Siggy: hey anders :D how’s it going?_

_[Guild] Justítìa: well enough, thanks_

_[Guild] Justítìa: BTW, I’m up for that raid if you’re still looking_

_[Guild] Siggy: sure, you want to heal? we’re pugging 2 DPS, just so you know_

_[Guild] Justítìa: heal as always_

_[Siggy has invited Justítìa to join your party]_

_[Justítìa has joined your party]_

_[Party] Justítìa: hey all, second healer here_

_[Party] Serannalin: bah, as if we needed another heal for this_

_[Party] Justítìa: lol good evening to you too, Vel_

_[Party] Zyd-the-slayer: oh is this a guild run?_

_[Party] Siggy: yeah, sorta, but feel free to roll on drops as you like_

_[Party] ChargingBull: cool :D_

_[Party] Red-Jenny: oh you’ll sooo regret saying that lol_

_[Party] Siggy: still waiting for one tank to relog_

_[Eleanor_C has logged in]_

_[Party] Siggy: ah nvm_

_[Siggy has invited Eleanor_C to join your party]_

_[Eleanor_C has joined your party]_

_[Party] Eleanor_C: sorry, my connection here is shit_

_[Party] boom-headshot: o_O thought you were in Denerim with the husband?_

_[Party] Eleanor_C: heh I wish, back in the field actually – orders from the top_

_[Party] Loghroy_Jerrykins: what, the old ****** at Whpt?_

_[Party] Eleanor_C: that’s my lord First ****** for you_

_[Party] Siggy: wow, that’s way above my clearance_

_[Party] Justítìa: this is for Tower of Dread HM, right?_

_[Party] Loghroy_Jerrykins: aye, and SM too if we have the time_

_[Party] Eleanor_C: … I didn’t realise the deserter would be here_

_[Party] Justítìa: I’ve made my choice long ago. Sorry, but I’m not going back to the order_

_[Party] Siggy: oh ffs let’s not argue about this again …_

_[Party] Serannalin: you shemlen and your grudges … seriously, calm down and let’s kill some shit_

_[Party] boom-headshot: because surely harbouring grudges is so unlike the Dalish, my lady?_

_[Party] Eleanor_C: ugh, fine_

_[Party] Siggy: phase set, all zone in_

_[Party] Red-Jenny: lol matching outfits_

_[Party] ChargingBull: so, uh, do you all RP as Wardens or something?_

_[Party] Loghroy_Jerrykins: lol_

_[Party] Siggy: uh, sure, let’s go with that … **[13]**_

Hawke did not know how she had gotten home and into her bed after her … meeting … with her sister, and any inquiry into the matter had been precluded by the fucking massive headache that had little in common with its smaller brethren that presented themselves to her most other mornings. Once she was better, she’d have to ask Varric if she had paid her tab, been embarrassingly sick, or crippled someone.

Fiends that they were, mother and Bodahn had exploited her momentary despondency to ambush her with a message from Aveline and – the horror – fancy clothes. In the face of _that_ overwhelming force, Hawke had capitulated unconditionally after offering what little defence she could muster. She hadn’t even _known_ she owned a three-piece suit, let alone the small cabinet of ties and pocket squares they had made her try on before finally settling on accessories. Worse, they hadn’t even let her take her sidearm (nor the other sidearm. No, not that one either. And how had mother even _known_ about that knife?). “It’s the Viscomital Palace, Messere,” Bodahn had said. “You’ll ‘ardly need to be armed.”

“Besides,” her mother had added, “we don’t want a repeat of _last time_ , now do we?”

To the Void with them.

Aveline met her halfway up the stairs leading up to the palace. “There you are … looking very smart today.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m on duty, thank you. Follow me,  His Excellency is expecting us.”

Aveline led her through the security checkpoint and up the grand staircase. Having been in the palace before, Hawke was mildly surprised that the guard commander did not lead her upstairs to the seneschal’s cabinet rooms as usual, but instead straight ahead towards the viscount’s personal apartments. “Why am I here?”

“You’ll learn soon enough.” Her friend had put on her best diamondback face – or rather, her best guardswoman face, Aveline being absolutely terrible at diamondback. She opened a door flanked by a pair of guardsmen and beckoned her to enter.

Viscount Marlowe Dumar, grey and haggard as ever, was seated behind a massive old oak desk, empty but for a closed laptop and a few family photos. Behind him, a glass door opened up on a balcony with a view of the harbour, the Gallows and the Twins well within view. Bookshelves lined one wall, portraits of past leaders of Kirkwall the other. Viscount Perrin Threnhold’s portrait took in a place of honour above the fireplace. His successor appeared deep in thought, but looked up when they entered. “Serah Hawke, Commander Vallen. Welcome. Please, be seated.”

“Why am I here? … my lord?,” Hawke repeated, dropping herself into one of the armchairs in front of the desk.

“Do you recall your actions last Friday?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Answer the question, Hawke,” Aveline sharply ordered her in a voice she suspected was otherwise reserved for unruly recruits.

She rolled her eyes and began to search her memory. “I didn’t expect some kind of Nevarran Inquisition.[14] Uh, I think Isabella had just gotten back from Antiva the day before, so we were probably at the Hanged Man most of the day. Busted some trafficking ring in the evening, I think.”

“Let me refresh your memory,” the commander supplemented with barely concealed fury. “You, Fenris, Isabella and Varric charged into their hideout at the docks guns blazing, freed the ring’s victims and killed every trafficker you found, despite most of them being unarmed and offering no resistance. In the course of the shootout, the building caught fire, probably from an improvised incendiary grenade, and the blaze went on to consume several nearby warehouses, though thankfully no more lives were lost. A small consolation, after twenty-four people had already been killed.”

Hawke crossed her arms. “Since when do you care about that scum?”

“I do not. However, my people had been preparing a sting against that operation for months. A few more days, and we would have arrested every single one of them, uncovered their partners in the Carta and abroad, and safely extracted our people.”

“Your people?”

“Three of my guardsmen were embedded undercover in that cell. Constable Fionril Nala, Constable Lenore Wilkins, and Sergeant Roger Leal were all killed in the line of duty that night. Killed by you.”

Hawke shifted a little in her chair. She tried to recall that evening. The morning after, she had woken up at the Hanged Man with a massive hangover, scorch marks on her clothes and hands, and an astronomical ammunition bill. Before? Not a chance. “Okay,” she said. “I fucked up.”

The viscount’s lips twitched upwards. “That’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think? Look. I appreciate what you’re doing for this city. You are a hero to my people, and a connecting link between native Kirkwallers and our Ferelden-born compatriots. Accordingly, I am prepared to grant you a lot of leeway on your exploits. But this goes too far, Hawke. I will _not_ permit you to act as judge, jury and executioner in my city. Do I make myself clear?”

Grinding her teeth, she nodded. All this bullshit over three guards? Hadn’t they sworn an oath to lay down their lives in defence of Kirkwall or something, anyway? “So,” she finally asked, “what happens now?”

“The only ones who know what truly happened last Friday are the three of us in this room. For now, we will keep it that way. As far as their friends and families are concerned, guards Nala, Wilkins and Leal will have been KIA in an unrelated incident, Maker knows there are enough of them these days.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow at Dumar. “So … what, you’re covering for me?”

“For lack of a better expression, yes. If this became public … well, suffice it to say, the seneschal’s campaign to ‘restore order’ in Kirkwall’s streets would gain a lot of traction. Whatever he may mean by that.”[15]

“And we all know who _really_ is behind Seneschal Bran’s bid for re-election,” Aveline finished the thought.[16]

“So you want to spite Meredith, I get it. But there must be more to it, else you’d just let me take the fall.”

The viscount leaned back in his chair. “Serah Hawke, I am an old man. I have ruled this city for thirteen years, and have presided over as many administrations led by as many seneschals. I tire of this … and, to be frank, I am growing weary of bowing to the Templars. When I took office, I had hoped that my son Seamus would succeed me on the throne, but as you know, he has little interest in politics.”

“Is this going anywhere?”

“Hawke!”

“My point is, I need to think of the future. Mine, my family’s, but more importantly – that of Kirkwall. My city needs a leader, now more than ever before, a leader who will stand up to our oppressors and throw off the yoke that has always been placed on us. A leader who will make Kirkwall strong again, and, if not end, _control_ the chaos in her streets. Kirkwall needs _you._ ”

Hawke almost laughed out loud. The man’s dementia was showing. “You want me to run for seneschal? Are you mad or just suicidal?”

“Seneschal? I say, you certainly never cease to amaze me. I doubt even you could do all that in a four-year term. No, Serah Hawke. The position I had in mind is rather more elevated.”

She scowled when it dawned upon her. “Don’t be absurd. The nobles would never elect me. Nor would the Templars let them, for that matter.”

“You are more popular than you know, and my support still holds some weight. When we first met in person, Hawke, shortly after you had returned from the Deep Roads, I was quite impressed with you. As a gang leader, you had been cunning and ruthless, yet also protective of my people. You had become a champion of the weak. When you became heir to one of Kirkwall’s oldest and most respected families, you also became a member of my nobility. You were intelligent, yet also quick to take conclusive action. You were likeable, yet impartial. You were human, yet also popular with the elves. You had experienced the lot of our poor, yet now had the wealth to support yourself. You had military experience, yet lived as a civilian. You were of Kirkwall blood, but also had close ties to Ferelden. And Maker knows, the idea of Stannard’s reaction to a known mage-sympathiser, whose father and sister had both been apostates, coming into power caused me no small amount of satisfaction. In short, you were the perfect candidate.”

Hawke wanted to laugh at him. Her, viscountess? The city would not survive her coronation day. But something about Dumar’s speech had made her pause. She looked at the portraits on the wall. Most of them she did not recognise, but a painting of Perrin Threnhold had been present in Amell House when they had first moved in. Hadn’t there been something about him? Mother had told her the story, probably, but Hawke had never had a mind for history. He had been assassinated in prison, hadn’t he, allegedly on the orders of Grand Cleric Elthina. Something involving the Templars … then it all came back to her. Thirteen years ago, the viscount had attempted to distance Kirkwall from the overbearing Orlesian Chantry. Facing opposition, he had finally taken an army of PMCs and city guards,[17] crossed the bay, and seized the Gallows. He had executed the then-Knight-Commander and declared the Circle’s autonomy within his realm. That had been Meredith’s hour of glory: with a handful of Templars, she had in turn stormed the Viscomital Palace, deposed and imprisoned Threnhold. Thus, Chantry domination of Kirkwall continued.

And now Hawke saw herself, crossing the harbour at the head of an army to take back what was hers and enact vengeance on those self-righteous Templar bastards … She opened her eyes.

“I’m in.”

Viscount Dumar raised an eyebrow. “How very odd. Commander Vallen assured me you would require plenty of convincing.”

“Well, consider me plenty convinced, then. Make me your successor.”

“Not so fast, serah.”

“What?”

“When I said that I was impressed, I meant it. I was impressed with you – three years ago. Now? Friday’s incident is just the crowning achievement in a long record of reckless violence and destruction.”

She rolled her eyes. Andraste’s tits, she needed a drink. “I told you, it was an honest accident …”

“An accident that should not have happened,” Aveline interrupted her with great vehemence. “An accident that was easily avoidable. An accident that _killed three of my men._ ” Considering the size of Kirkwall and the number of guards that appeared to be killed off by gangs every day, Hawke doubted she had even made a dent in the statistic.

“Serah Hawke, I want to offer you my support. But before I do that, I must be assured that you will be the ruler I believe you could be. There is a title in the Free Marches, a title traditionally given by a city’s lord to its greatest defender.” The viscount rose to his feet and looked out on the harbour. “The Free City of Kirkwall has not had a Champion in many centuries. It is time we had one again. But I will not – cannot – make a mindless drunken thug the sword and shield of my city. From today on, we three will meet regularly. I will introduce you to the duties and responsibilities of a ruler, Commander Vallen will coordinate your nightly exploits with her guardsmen to avoid any further incidents, and between the three of us, we will plan for the future of Kirkwall. And if you show up to any of our meetings intoxicated, Hawke, I promise you I _will_ press charges against you, so help me Andraste. Do you understand?”

“Stop treating me like I’m some kind of alcoholic …”

“If you believe that you aren’t, you’re deluded. Now. Do. You. Understand?”

“… yes, sir.” Maker, what a cunt. Though, what had Bethany called her again? A drunken thug? Maybe, just maybe, Dumar had the tiniest bit of a point. Maybe … if it was just for the viscountcy, she’d have told him where to shove his moralising. But this was about Bethany now …

“Capital! I will have you summoned. Do not let me detain you.”

She wanted to say something, but Aveline rudely yanked her out of her armchair. With a stiff bow, she dragged Hawke out of the door. “The Void was that supposed to be?”

“You still killed three of my people, Hawke. Good people. The viscount may have promised you a promotion, but you and me, we’re not done yet. The two of us are going to the sparring ring, and I’m going to kick your arse until you wish you had never been born.”

 

 

_“In a recent memorandum to her flock, the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall urged citizens to report any Free Mages they might encounter. It is a credit to Kirkwall’s people that the local Mage Underground stands firm and united in the face of our enemies. I have yet to meet a Kirkwaller who would sell out a mage compatriot, and indeed, many of them support our movement, either with vital supplies, information and campaigning, or with tacit defiance of the tyrannical Templars. For you see, the good people of Kirkwall may proudly call it a Free City, but in truth they are just as oppressed as we are, and side by side we suffer under the yoke of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard …”_

– from _A beacon of hope: Free Mages in Kirkwall,_ posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

“And you’re absolutely positive of this?”

“I am. Once Bethany left, I double-checked my notes and dictionaries, and I have no doubt that is what it means.” Merrill sipped on her tea. “This is pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“Well, that depends.”

“Excuse me, Blondie, but how exactly is an insane blood mage running rampant in the city toying with magic he barely understands not bad news? Not to mention Sunshine caught in the middle.”

“Hmm. Merrill, you said they didn’t know anything yet?”

“Very little. There wasn’t much I could help them with, either.”

“Good. This might be the thing we’ve been waiting for.”

“Oooh, exciting.”

“Varric, go talk to Hawke and Isabela. Get them to work … maybe not mention that Bethany is involved. You know how Hawke gets. Merrill, investigate the victim, see if you can get Fenris to help you. I’ll try to contact our … friend in the Gallows. Let’s find and neutralise – no. Capture that killer alive, no matter the cost. All other operations are on hold until further notice. If we do this right, this might just be what we’ve been looking for.”

“And what will you be doing in the meantime, Blondie?”

Anders reached for his laptop. “I … will write.”

 

 

_“’Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.’ That is the verse by which the Chantry justifies our servitude. Yet it must be clear to the impartial reader that the oppression of magekind is not the will of the Maker: we Free Mages do not let our magic rule us, but reason like any other person. Neither do we Free Mages use our magic to rule over others, for we recognise that he who fights for his own freedom cannot deny others the same rights. Yet neither will we live in servitude. Using that verse, the Chantry and the Templars seek to chain us like dogs and like dogs they seek to sic us on their enemies when it is opportune to them. Is that what they mean by ‘to serve man’? If so, we reject their interpretation of the Maker’s will, and posit our own instead …”_

– from _On the Canticle of Transfigurations,_ posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

 

A few hours later, they had finally received a copy of Shari Neranni’s birth certificate from the city guard.[18] Bethany supposed they were lucky that the girl featured in the records at all, unlike many Alienage residents, but the lack of cooperation from the guard was irritating nonetheless. Wasn’t it in everyone’s interest that the girl’s killer be stopped as quickly as possible?

On the upside, the delay likely meant they wouldn’t have to break the news to Shari’s family, whose flat in another, slightly more reputable, part of the Alienage the records had led them to. Still, after Merrill’s revelations, looking suitably sombre wasn’t hard for Bethany. She had yet to tell Cullen – there was no way she could convince him Merrill just _happened_ to be an expert on elven blood magic rituals –, but the gloomy look came more naturally to him as he knocked on the Nerannis’ door.

After a few moments, the door opened a bit, just as far as the chain allowed, and the face of a middle-aged, blonde elven woman appeared. Her features might once have been pretty, but had long since been distorted by weariness and exhaustion: her hair already getting sparse, her skin sallow, her eyes tired. Alarmed at the site of two well-dressed humans before her, she managed to utter a timid ‘Y… yes? Can I help you?”

“Are you Mistress Elothra Neranni?,” Cullen asked her, looking very serious. Hesitatingly, the woman nodded, and Cullen briefly flashed his badge. “Knight-Captain Rutherford, Knights Templar. This is my partner, Ench… er, Bethany Hawke. Would you mind answering a few questions about your daughter, Shari?”

The elf gasped. “By the Drea… by the Maker, the Templars? I knew, I _knew_ something was off with that girl! Have you finally come to take her away?”

Bethany and Cullen shared a look. Seemed like the city guard had yet to break her the news, after all. “That is … might we come in?”

The door was closed, the chain undone, and they were let in. The flat smelled strongly of anise, coriander and elfroot. Unlike Shari’s abode – which had been pristinely clean and almost unnervingly sterile – her family’s flat appeared to be stuck in a perpetual state of chaos. From an adjourning room, two children could be heard fighting, a third crying. Through an open door, she saw an old man sleeping in a worn-out old armchair. “Before you ask, I haven’t seen that girl in weeks,” Mistress Neranni explained, leading them into a tiny living room. “But she’s always been odd, I tell you. Surprised she never burned the house down in her sleep!”

“So … you’re saying your daughter was … an apostate?,” Cullen asked, confused. Bethany stepped on his foot. So much for being sensitive.

“Well, I should think so! I asked your people to take her away years ago, but they wouldn’t even look at her. Ah, no matter, you can do that now. Good for her, I suppose, and good for us decent folk.”

Bethany took a deep breath. “Serah Neranni … I’m afraid that is not why we’re here. There is something you need to know, and you need to be very strong for it.”

“Oh, Andraste’s blood. I suppose ‘twas too good to be true, wasn’t it? What is it then, Messere Hawke, I am prepared for everything. Did she get into trouble again? Is she whoring herself out now? She never did want to learn a proper trade.”

“What? No. No. Ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter is dead. She was found murdered two days ago.”

For a moment, Neranni gave her a puzzled look. “Murdered? But …” Then she paled, and clasped her hands before her mouth. “No … no, that can’t be … please, Messeres, there must be some sort of mistake! Shari’s a fool and a brat, but no one would ever want to … to do her harm!”

“We’re sorry. Rest assured we are doing everything we can to find and punish the culprit. But we need your help to do so.” Neranni started sobbing, and Bethany and Cullen shared a look. Damn it, she had never been good at his – when Father had died, it had been Marian who’d comforted her, and Aveline of all people when she’d grieved for Carver. She didn’t know what to say to the woman. Maybe they should come back another day?

“Elothra, child, go see to your children,” a sudden voice from the doorway saved her from her predicament. She looked up, the old man she had seen sleeping in the other room had joined them, leaning on a knotty walking stick. “I will talk to the Templars.”

Wiping her tears away, Neranni nodded. Still stifling sobs, she hurried past the man. “I overheard most of what you said. Do not listen to my daughter, Shari was a good girl. Kind. Hard-working. Smart, too, she almost received a scholarship for Tantervale. If there is any way I can help you find whoever did this to her, please ask.”

“Her mother doesn’t seem overly fond of her,” Cullen pointed out.

“They never got along well, I must say. For the last five years, every time they’ve been together for more than a few hours, they start arguing about some trifling thing. And once they’re begun, they’re far too stubborn to back down. Add to that the way Shari has been behaving lately …”

“And how would that be?”

The old elf considered the question for a moment. “Oddly. She hardly talked to us, anymore, nor to any of her old friends from the neighbourhood. She quit her second job from one day to the other, for no good reason. Quite frankly, I don’t think she was feeling well. And then there’s the mage stuff …”

“What do you mean, ‘mage stuff’?,” Bethany asked.

“I don’t quite understand it myself. She’s been spending a lot of time writing letters to people on her phone, I think? Last time we spoke, she read something … something heretical to me, Maker have mercy upon her. Some article, I believe, about abuses in the Kirkwall Circle – no offense, Sers Templars.”

“None taken. Did Shari mention any names, perhaps? Maybe a friend she met online?”

“You mean through the Internet? No, none that I know of. As I said, she hardly spoke to us at all the last few months or so. I can give you the names of a few friends of hers, but I don’t think they heard much from her either.”

“I see. Master Neranni, would you say that your granddaughter was a mage-sympathiser?”

“I didn’t think much of it. You know how young people are: they pick up some ridiculous ideology for a few years to spite their parents, then drop them a few years later as if they had never held them. But yes, Shari’s ideology of choice was mages’ rights.”

Well, always nice to see people care about them so much they became passionate about issues they could not possibly understand. “You said Shari spent a lot of time on her phone. It was not on her body, and we couldn’t find it in her flat. Would you happen to know where else it might be?”

“I haven’t had a chance to visit her new place since she moved out, but when she lived here, she used to keep it by her bed or on her person. If it wasn’t in either of those places, I have no idea where else it might be.”

Cullen nodded. “I see. Well, I think we’re done here, unless you have anything else that might help us? … thank you very much for your help. Rest assured we’ll do everything we can to find the one who killed your granddaughter.”

The old elf rose with them and shook their hands. “Maker bless you, Messeres. The city guard cares nothing for a few elves, but at least we can always count on the Templars.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow and pointedly glanced at Cullen. “That so? Funny how I’ve never seen a single elven Templar at the Gallows.”

“Uh, I think there’s a half-elf in Ser Barmont’s command. Anyway, we should go. Again, our condolences.”[19]

Neranni accompanied them to the door. “One more thing, Messeres. Since you are involved, I assume my granddaughter was murdered by mages?”

There was a pause. “That is our current assumption, yes.”

The old man’s face hardened. “Then make them pay, Messeres. They lured Shari away from her family and friends, and they murdered her. Make those _monsters_ pay.”

Bethany bore the insult in silence while Cullen said something noncommittal. Maker knew she was used to scorn – even before her capture, there had been no reproach she had not thrown at herself (or that a teenage Carver had not been all too willing to add). They made their goodbyes and, silently, descended the stairs to where Cullen had parked his car. “Andraste’s fla… grace, will you look at this!”

She walked around the car. It appeared someone had keyed a vulgar image on the driver’s door. Bethany stifled a laugh. “I told you, you shouldn’t have parked out here. You’re lucky it wasn’t stolen.”

“Bet you a sovereign they’ll take the recoating out of our pay.”

“Your pay. I’m not being paid for this, remember. Come on, ser, let’s get going.”

They got in the car. “Well, at least we got something out of this. We can probably get Shari’s phone’s records from the service provider. That should give us all we need.”

“That will take time,” she pointed out as Cullen pulled out into the traffic out of the alienage, “as well as the Knight-Commander invoking her Right of Illumination. Or the Knight-Vigilant himself, if the phone company is based abroad.”

“I’ll file a request. We’ll have to make do until then. Let’s talk to the victim’s friends, they might know more. Preferably tomorrow, though, I’ve got some private business to take care of. Speaking of, what’s the time?”

“Half past four, why?”

“Oh, damn it. King Cailan Memorial Hospital closes for visitors at half past five. I’ll have to go see my sister tomorrow, then.”

“Isn’t that on the Avenue Michel Lafaille? That’s just a few minutes from here. What’s keeping you?”

Cullen shook his head. “I need to return you to the Gallows first, I’m afraid. The Rule of the Order dictates that I may not leave a mage unsupervised outside the Circle.”

“I could come with you,” she suggested. Only a moment later did she realise the implied challenge, would Cullen trust the mage he worked with day to day in the presence of his family?

It was clear to her that Cullen was struggling with the same question. For the entire duration of their professional relationship, he had never been less than a perfect gentleman to her, but she was well-aware of his feelings about mages. Bethany had no illusions that Ser Cullen would hesitate to strike her down, should she fall victim to possession.

At last, Cullen sighed and nodded as the wish to see his sister won out. “Very well, but no word to anyone.”

A few minutes later, they entered the hospital through the front door. “I’m here to see my sister,” Cullen told the receptionist. “Mia Rutherford. She gave birth here today.”

“Of course, ser Templar,” the receptionist replied, raising an eyebrow at his uniform before glancing at the retractable staff at Bethany’s hip. “She’s in the Maternity Ward, room 5.46.”

“Thank you.” Cullen called the nearest lift. At this time – towards the end of visiting hours, but still before the end of work for thousands of Kirkwallers – the lobby of the hospital was nearly deserted, and the empty lift arrived within seconds. “Why are you looking at me like that, Enchanter Hawke?”

She quickly averted her gaze. “I’m not.”

“No, you … you were _grinning_ at me.”

“So that’s what that phone call was about, huh? You should have said you had become an uncle,” she teased. Then, she giggled. “Uncle Cullen. How adorable. Don’t you dare miss a single birthday.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“So, which is it? Boy or girl?”

“A boy. And before you ask, no, I don’t know the name, if he even has one yet. I think this is it? Damn, I should have gotten flowers or something.” Cullen knocked on the door, and a woman’s voice – bright and cheerful, if tired – invited them inside.

Cullen’s family was arraigned around Mia Rutherford’s childbed, or at least that was Bethany’s impression judging from the strong family resemblance. Smiles widened throughout the room as her handler entered, her following in his shadow. The only one not sharing Cullen’s golden curls, a young man in a stained white dress shirt with deep rings under his eyes, embraced him.  “There you are! Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Congratulations, Tormen, and Maker’s blessing upon you. How are you holding up?”

“I swear,” the young mother commented with a roll of her eyes, gently stroking the head of the sleeping infant at her bosom, “you’d think he was the one giving birth, from the way he’s been fretting the last few …” Her glance fell on Bethany and she halted, then a wide grin appeared on her face. “Oh, I didn’t see you there, serah. Are you with my brother? That would be the first time he’s brought a girl home …”

She blushed a little. So did Cullen. “There’s … really no need to mention that, Mia. And it’s _not_ like that.”

“I’d like to emphasise that last bit,” she added and bowed slightly. “I’m a co-worker of Ser Cullen. Please pardon the intrusion.”

“Ah, right. Everyone, this is Enchanter Bethany Hawke. Hawke, my sisters, Mia and Sybil, Mia’s husband, Tormen, my older brother Marron, his girlfriend, Alys, the moody old bat sleeping at the back is my aunt Lady Holbeck … and I don’t know if the newest addition to the family has a name yet.”

Lady Holbeck did not seem to be quite as asleep as Cullen thought, for she startled, looked at her and in a stage whisper commented: “That’s one of the Amell girls, isn’t it? She’s pretty enough, I suppose, but a mage …”

As her blush deepened, Mia glared before turning back to her. “Never mind her, she’s always like that. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Enchanter. Cullen speaks highly of you … when he speaks to us, that is. He never calls.”

Cullen had the grace to look sheepish. “Look, I’ve been meaning to call you, but something has always come up …”

It occurred to Bethany that she knew virtually nothing about her handler. She did not know whence in Ferelden he hailed, nor how he had come to serve in Kirkwall. She had no idea what he liked to do in his off-hours, if he was at all familiar with the concept, or how he dressed when out of uniform. Even now, having met his family in such an intimate situation, she felt like an intruder. The fact that the only reason she was here was Cullen’s adherence to the dictates of his order did not make it any less awkward.

Being excluded from the Rutherfords’ circle, Bethany’s thoughts returned to the dilemma of how to break Merrill’s revelations to Cullen. The easiest way, she supposed, would be to ask Ella to present them as her own findings, but that approach held its own risks. They would have to explain how Ella had acquired minute knowledge of ancient elven, for one. In addition, mere knowledge of a Spirit of Freedom that had been summoned by several rebellious Circles might be enough to get her thrown into solitary confinement for a month or two, the way things had been going. Naming Merrill was, of course, out of the question. She had _chosen_ life in the Circle, and she believed it was the best option for most mages, but she had no right to make that decision for her apostate friends (or Anders, for that matter).

And what if she just took the fall herself? The killer had to be stopped, after all. If a few months of solitary confinement helped save innocent lives, they were a small price to pay. The question was not if she would bear the punishment, but whether she could accept what would come after. Bethany had worked hard to be accepted into the then newly-founded Magical Crimes Investigation Service (or MCIS, for short) and to be given the chance to teach apprentices despite her age and background. It was what gave her purpose, and how she found a bit of freedom in the Circle without making anyone else suffer on her behalf. There was no damn way the Templars would let her continue were she to admit to such knowledge.

The sound of her name startled her out of her thoughts. It still felt weird to hearken to ‘Hawke’; Hawke was dad, or Marian. “Enchanter Hawke?,” Mia Rutherford repeated, “would you like to hold him?”

Her eyes widened as the first hint of panic set on. What was the meaning of this? To Mia, she was a perfect stranger. What’s more, she was a _mage_. Was this … some kind of test? She threw a nervous glance at Cullen, who was trying very hard not to look too alarmed. No test then. Why, then … She should refuse. She heard herself say, “If … if you don’t mind.”

Bethany stepped forward, and Mia carefully handed her son to her. The child had awakened, and Bethany was immensely relieved that it didn’t cry. Instead, it stared at her from large, curious blue eyes. As she softly rocked the babe, she tried to imagine what his future would be like. Would he follow in his uncle’s footsteps and become a Templar, a guard like Aveline or a soldier like Carver, a protector of the innocent? Would he turn out to be academically minded like her father, perhaps, or a doctor like Anders? An artist, like Varric? Or had he, by some accident of fate and genetics, been born with magic, and would he be tormented by demons nightly and forced into a Circle before he was old enough to even know his parents?

The thought was frightening.

A sudden headache almost made her lose her footing, and she quickly handed the infant back to his mother. Where had this come from? Magical energies tingled on her skin. She felt like she was floating, weightless. Power, all around her, swirling in gleaming crimson … and she was acutely aware of what felt like a thousand black eyes watching her from beyond the Veil – no. Not her.

_Past_ her.

“Enchanter Hawke? Are you feeling alright?”

Concentrating, chewing on her lower lip, she looked upwards, to the ceiling. Her blood curdled and turned to ice. “He’s here,” she whispered. “Right above us …”

Then, she bolted.

“What the … Hawke! Damn it!”

Running, she unclipped and unfolded her staff. Sybil screamed, the baby started crying, but she was already through the door and halfway down the corridor, Cullen following her at a sprint. “Stand down, Hawke,” he roared, “or I swear to Andraste you will regret this!”

She ignored him. “He’s here!,” she shouted over her shoulder, narrowly dodging a startled nurse, “the killer! I can feel it!” That had to be enough, let Cullen decide what to do with that. Bethany preferred to save her breath for the blood mage as she already stormed up the nearest stairwell. Arrived at the top, it took her a moment to orient herself and catch her breath.

Cullen caught up to her, and she was pleasantly surprised that he was not pointing a gun at her. “Where to now?,” he asked with great urgency.

“One second, let me concentrate …”

“There!,” the Templar exclaimed, pointing at something in the hallway and running off. She followed, but only when they stood right beside the door – her holding on to the cold aluminium of her staff, him holding his sidearm at the ready – did she see the small puddle of blood spreading under the door.

“Ready?,” Cullen silently mouthed at her. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. She nodded. “On three. One, two …” He kicked in the door.

The scene that presented itself to them was all too familiar. Amidst the all-pervading metallic stench of blood, a young human woman lay peacefully in a hospital bed in the middle of the room. Her throat had been slit, and once again floor, walls, furniture and even the girl’s long dark hair were covered in blood. She recognised the glyph in an instance. “Maker, no,” she muttered as Cullen carefully secured the room and checked the girl’s pulse.

“The body is still warm.”

Bethany closed her eyes and reached for the doorframe to support herself. Too late, again. They had to _end_ this. She stepped back into the hallway to get out of it, out of the glyph and out of the blood – just in time to see a figure hurry around a corner. “Excuse me, serah … Hey! Hold it right there!,” she shouted, tightening her grip on her staff. The figure broke into a run, and she gave chase.

Sprinting past him, she caught just a few glimpses of him – a blonde human male, wearing an ill-fitting labcoat over filthy jeans. “Halt!,” she repeated breathlessly, then, with a flourish of her staff, threw a small Fireball at him. The killer dodged at the last instant, diverting the fireball into the wall beside him instead, making the hospital tremble in its foundations and throwing herself, the doctors, nurses and patients around them, and Ser Cullen behind her to the ground. Stumbling to her feet, Bethany shook off the plaster dust that had fallen on her blazer and continued the chase.

“Hawke, hold your fire!”

She ignored Cullen. Couldn’t he see this was their chance? Before her, the killer half-turned in his run and pointed two fingers at her. A crackle of energy, and she had just enough time to raise her Spell Shield, then a thunderstrike as a bolt of Chain Lightning arced between them. Empowered by his victim’s blood, absorbing the spell’s sheer magical energy was enough to leave her almost completely drained of mana and gasping for air. He wanted to play rough? She would give him rough.

Flourishing her staff, she sent three more, weaker wafts of flame at him. He easily dodged two, the last scorching the hem of his labcoat, but by then Bethany had concentrated enough to cast her next spell. _Winter’s Grasp._ The air around the killer crystallised, spikes of ice protruding from his flesh as he slowed to a halt … and then broke free, ice shattering around him. Bethany’s eyes widened as she narrowly shielded herself against most of the shards flying towards her. One icicle cut deep into her side, drawing blood, but she barely felt any pain. Someone screamed. Oh, that bastard was _going down._

She wished she had a few lyrium pills on her, but she’d have to make due with anger. The killer stormed through the door at the end of the corridor and stumbled down the stairwell, with her maintaining a constant barrage of flame from her staff as she chased after him. The stairs did not provide as much cover as one might have thought – by the time they reached the ground floor, she would not only have set the murderer’s labcoat ablaze, but also regained enough mana to do some serious damage.

The man had also realised that, and fled her fire by leaving the stairwell. When she followed into the corridor, she found a crowd of doctors, nurses and patients had gathered, gawping at her with silent dread. Her target was nowhere in sight. Panting, leaning on her staff, she looked around, trying to spy his scorched and bloodied labcoat in the crowd. He must still be nearby … There! Brazenly hiding amidst the crowd …

Growling, Bethany whirled her staff around and began to form a fireball. The false doctor turned on his heel and started running. Screaming, the crowd dissolved as people ran for cover (though cover with a decent view, this _was_ Kirkwall, after all).

As flames gathered around her, she raised her hands. “ _Firesto…_ ”

Two fingertips were laid upon her neck. “In the name of the Maker,” Cullen’s voice thundered, “I smite thee with His light!”

As her blood turned to fire, as every nerve in her body overloaded, as her mind tried and failed to cut out the ten thousand voices screaming at her from beyond the Veil, Bethany, too, screamed.

 

 

_“One of our organising brothers has recently raised a point about operational security that I’d like to elaborate on. First of all, to get it out of the way: the whole point of our movement is to help our fellow mages. Using our brothers and sisters as scapegoats to take the fall_ kinda _defeats the point of that. I didn’t think I’d have to say this, but there you are. On to less depressing matters. One of the greatest dangers to our movement is the Magical Crimes Investigation Service. As of two years ago, every Circle under the Divine has one. Why are they so dangerous? Because the shackled mages working in it can pass as one of us. Watch out for signs of lacking conviction! Talk to your brothers and sisters, help them with their doubts. If you find an MCIS agent, do_ not _attempt to reason with them. They are already indoctrinated beyond saving. Do not exclude them, but watch your words around them …”_

– from _A modern underground_ , posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

“Uh, excuse me for asking, but how can you _both_ be poor Sally’s siblings?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?,” Hawke asked with indignation. “How can you even _say_ something like that? We’ve just lost our sister! Show some respect!”

The young intern landed with the duty of dealing with the murdered girl’s family flushed red. “I … of course, and my sincere condolences, it’s just … well, there’s the _height_ difference!”

She scoffed. There was that headache again. “Oh for the love of … Reginald, explain it to her.”

If he had been able to reach up to the intern’s shoulders, Varric would have put an arm around her. “My dear lady, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of people get it wrong. The thing is, me and, uh, Candy here aren’t actually related by blood. You see, I’m the runt of the littler, so to speak – they tell me I was found in the wilderness one dark and stormy night, wrapped in swaddling clothes, with nothing to give any indication of my identity but for the beautiful old crossbow I’m carrying and a birthmark in the shape of the royal coat of arms of Kal-Sharok on my shoulder, whatever that may mean. Graciously, I was taken in by the humans I’ve come to think of as my family, poor honest folk who raised me on their farm like their own flesh and blood.” He wiped away a tear. “Maker rest your souls, ma and pa.”

“Of course,” Hawke said with a straight face, “that’s on our mother’s side. On our father’s side, we’re full siblings. Got a bit of dwarf in the family tree, oh, back in the Exalted Age or so.”

“Oh,” made the intern, temporarily losing her medical degree, “I see.”

“Now … about our sister?”

The intern’s blush deepened as she led them down the mortuary’s corridors. It was cold as a freezer, Hawke shivered even in her old army greatcoat. “We’ve, uh, had a little collection. Amongst the staff, I mean. For the funeral. We were all very fond of Sally. I … I know it’s not much of a consolation, but she always said that she was tired of living on life support. I think she’s in a better place now.” Boy, whoever had taught the girl about interacting with patients and mourners ought to lose their tenure. The intern opened one of the large drawers embedded into the walls of the mortuary before respectfully leaving them alone. It held a body bag.

Hawke and Varric exchanged a glance. “Putting it on rather thick, don’t you think, Hawke?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. What was that about ‘Candy’?”

The dwarf chuckled and drew open the body bag’s zipper from head to toes. “Recognise her?”

Hawke had a close look at the dead woman. Human, no older than 25, probably younger. Bald, but with the tell-tale signs of a high-quality wig. Her skin had the kind of pallor that Hawke had come to recognise as being the product of near-total exsanguination. There was a single neat cut across the throat that had been cleaned and stitched up for the funeral. That matched the pictures from the first murder scene she’d been shown. The rest … “Never seen her before in my life. You?”

“Nope. But I’ve met her father, if I’m not mistaken, via Bartrand. Lord Rust.”

“The Ferelden lord from West Hills? Owns a mansion on Ostwick Square, bit of a ponce?”

“The same. I thought you might’ve met him. Rumour has it that Lord and Lady Rust’s only daughter has been suffering from terminal leukaemia for years.”

“That’d be her then. Huh. From the Blightlands into the Dead Trenches, I guess.”

Varric gave a wry smile. “Literally, in this case. What tipped me off was when someone posted her obituary on three of Ander’s forums yesterday. The way it sounded, they didn’t seem to realise they’d stumbled into the Free Mages movement’s place, but the accounts used were well-known for the poster’s conviction. Her parents, I imagine.”

“Very conscientious of them. Was she one of ours, then?”

“Doubt it. Mage child with leukaemia wouldn’t have survived into her twenties. I think she was a sympathiser.”

Hawke frowned. “Why would the killer target mage sympathisers? He’s on our side.”

“Coincidence?”

“Neither victim showed signs of struggle. As far as I can tell, they willingly laid down and had their throats cut.”

“Sacrifices, then. Volunteers.”

She grimly nodded. “Let’s go. We’re done here.”

“Happily. Too damn cold in here,” Varric concurred, briefly looking down at his exposed carpet of virility, before producing a pack of cigarettes from his coat, lighting one and offering the pack to Hawke.

“What? You know I don’t smoke.”

The dwarf grinned, shrugged and returned the fags to his coat pocket. “Thought you might want something to fall back on. Y’know, since the viscount is putting you on the dry …”

“Ugh. Don’t even mention it.”

They met Merrill and Fenris at a shopping centre in upper Lowtown. It was the kind of place one went to look down on the kind of people who went there to shop. Or, as in their case, because no environment was more conducive to not being overheard than a food parlour full of bawling children.

Hawke noted that the two elves were making every effort to avoid being mistaken for friends. Fenris had even brought a book to avoid talking to the blood mage.[20] Not that there was much to connect them in the eyes of onlookers: one decked out in black leather, hair dyed white, the other in an airy green dress, sandals and all kinds of flowery accessories. Truth be told, she had been wondering why Fenris – who made no secret of his antipathy to mages – was still running along with them. Perhaps it was habit, or because he had no one else. Merrill waved at them, jumping up and down, as they approached. “There you are! How’d it go?”

“Nothing too exciting. Hawke killed a dragon at the hospital, though.”

Merrill pouted. “Dragons are an endangered species, you know. You shouldn’t joke about things like that.”[21]

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s a critic. Heroism used to be way easier.”

Chuckling, Varric led the group away from the food parlour. “The second victim is a Miss Salacia “Sally” Rust,” he informed the elves. “Wealthy family, but suffered from terminal leukaemia. And, surprise, surprise: turns out she was a mage sympathiser.”

“Just like the Neranni girl,” Fenris said. “Look at this.” He handed Hawke a tiny slip of paper, folded to be no larger than her thumbnail. “This was sewn into the lining of Neranni’s handbag. The Templars must have missed it.”

She unfolded the paper. Every last bit of it was covered in miniscule writing. Holding it close to her eyes, she could make out a list of names, addresses, phone numbers … “What is this?”

“I know some of the names,” Merrill said. “You know how Anders set up a network of friends in Kirkwall? Shelters, dead drops, useful contacts, that kind of thing. Well, some of them are on this list. Others I’ve never heard of.”

“That makes Shari a sympathiser, then. An activist, maybe? What about the other names? Do you think there might be a parallel network in the city?”

Fenris scoffed. “Why am I not surprised that your little ‘Mage Underground’ is splintering? Any mage who thinks he should be allowed to terrorise normal people without restraint is only a step away from advocating consorting with demons and using blood magic.”

“You’re so mean! Why do you say stuff like that!”

Hawke rolled her eyes. She had known this was going to happen the moment she had learned Anders had Merrill and Fenris investigating Neranni _together_. “Stop fighting, guys. This is serious.”

Varric stepped between the two elves, who continued to glare at each other over his head until Merrill saw an _absolutely darling_ dress in a shop window. “In either case, it’s clear that the killer’s victims are probably volunteers for sacrifice. Some sort of cult, if you ask me. What’s odd is that Shari carried that list with her. Those contacts are for the apostates we help, usually. Was she helping a mage?”

“The killer. Both victims were expecting their murderer and offered no resistance,” Hawke concluded. “One of the two mages battling at the hospital yesterday, probably.”

“Could have been both of them,” Fenris suggested. “They killed Rust, but the summoning still didn’t work. An argument broke out, and the woman attacked her partner. Either way, the woman is where she belongs: in the Gallows. That leaves the man.”

Hawke hated to admit it, but Fenris’ theory made a certain sense. Of all the blood mages she had met, few indeed had been the type to turn down a chance to stab their friends in the back. “If the man has a copy of this list, he will have fled to one of the safe houses. Maybe he’s lying low for a while, but I don’t feel like risking it.”

“Agreed. There’s a few dozen safe houses on this list, if we split up …”

“No. We stay together for this. I don’t intend on losing any of you to that bastard. And we’ll have to be discreet, too. I just _know_ Meredith, Aveline and the viscount are having me watched. These safe houses should stay safe. We’ll start tonight. Meet me at nine in … damn it. _Outside_ the Hanged Man, under arms. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get our man in the Gallows to get us the identity of the captured mage. Got it?”

They nodded. When Hawke had left in a hurry, Varric chuckled. “Poor girl. She hasn’t been sober for a day and she’s already taking control again … now, Daisy, let’s see about that dress you liked …”

 

 

_“A killer is stalking the streets of Kirkwall. A mage, say the Templars – a blood mage, they say. Two victims he has claimed. In a hospital, at the site of the second murder, two mages have fought, one of them a personal friend investigating the murders who has now been taken captive by the Templars. The other – a known MCIS agent of the dissolved Circle at Starkhaven. The victims – not mages, but vocal and active sympathisers of our movement and beloved members of our community. ‘Magic exists to serve man’, they say, as if we did not already know whose agenda the MCIS enforces. No doubt the Templars will disavow the killer when his actions become undeniable and use it as an excuse to crack down on liberty. But I swear: Shari Neranni and Sally Rust will have Justice!”_

– from _The case Neranni and Rust: an attack on liberty_ , posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

Staring past his bared sword at Ser Gwen Fletcher, Cullen and her both took three goose-steps forward until they were no less than an arm’s length apart. He slammed his heels together. Behind them, their replacements marched forward to take their places in front of the small black sentry boxes inside the Gallows gatehouse. _One, two, three._ All four knights turned by ninety degrees inwards, and on the next count Cullen and Ser Gwen took their swords under their arms and marched straight ahead across the Gallows courtyard.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, captain,” she muttered through her teeth.

He grumbled something in reply, concentrating on goose-stepping properly.[22] He’d never been good at drills, and he was out of practice. All officers were encouraged to stand at Medium Guard at least once a month, as an opportunity for humble reflection, but he was not aware of any of his peers doing so and had not done so since receiving his commission. He still stood his Low Guard, of course, when there was no pressing business, but Medium Guard was normally left to the enlisted knights like Ser Gwen. But after that business with Hawke last week, he’d found himself with very little to do.

They reached the entrance to the Templars’ Tower and he found himself relieved to be able to stop marching. Damn it, he was getting old. “How are you holding up, ser?,” Gwen asked him as they were changing from their No. 6 into their No. 2 uniforms – that is, removing the polished steel harnesses, white leather gaiters and shoulder belts and replacing their swords with the standard-issue Q&S P500(t) pistol and dagger. Cullen wasn’t sure whose idea it had been to have harnesses and other ceremonial armour (when appropriate) worn over the standard service uniform – but between his undershirt, shirt, waistcoat, woollen uniform tunic and the harness, he desperately needed a shower.

“I’m fine,” he said in reply to Ser Gwen’s question. “No need to worry about me, soldier.”

“It’s just, after what happened at the hospital …”

He scoffed. _That_ had been a disaster. A dead civilian – a noble, no less –, several injuries in the crowd, considerable property damage. And then …

He’d never Smitten a mage at point-blank range before.[23] He had no idea of the effect it would have – Enchanter Hawke may have narrowly evaded Tranquillity, but had still suffered second-degree burns in the neck and remained unconscious since. And the damn blood mage had gotten away, with no one able to identify or describe him. By now, he could be halfway across Thedas.

Cullen wasn’t sure which of these was more upsetting. The worst thing was that there was nothing he could do – the Knight-Commander had received his report in silence, complimented him on his quick thinking, then in no uncertain terms had confined him to the Gallows. “You did nothing wrong in my books, captain,” she’d said, “but I’m under fire here. Dumar wants you disciplined, the press want you discharged, and Orsino wants your head on a pike. It’s better for all of us if you lay low for a while.”

So now he stood guard.

Cullen locked up his arms and armour and returned to his quarters for a quick shower and a change of uniform before spending the better part of the hour reading the reports that had piled up on his desk. Some of them reached back weeks. He quickly found he couldn’t focus on his paperwork, as his thoughts returned to the case Neranni / Rust. At this point, he was seriously considering putting one of the MCIS teams under his commands on the case, considering that he and Hawke were unlikely to take to the field again for some time. Heck, he couldn’t blame her if she left the unit entirely after what he’d done to her, intentional or not.

He went to the officers’ mess for lunch. That felt odd: he almost never lunched in-house. No sooner had he sat down at the high table with his portion of fisherman’s pie, however, than someone tipped on his shoulder. He turned to find Knight-Lieutenant Otto Alrik looming over him, smirking in that insufferable way of his. He briefly touched his black beret. Cullen was tempted to make the lieutenant salute him properly, just because he could. “What is it, Alrik?,” he said with some exasperation.

“The Knight-Commander wants all officers in her office in ten minutes for an important briefing. Pass the word around.” He turned to move on before pausing. His grin widened. “Oh, and bloody good show at the hospital last week. Showed that freak her place.”

“Watch your tone, lieutenant.”

“Why? She’s just another robe bitch …”

Clenching his fists, Cullen rose to his feet. He barely registered that the other officers around them had fallen silent. Standing, he was just the slightest bit taller than Alrik, which made staring him down a lot easier. _Seven, eight, nine, ten …_ he released his fists. “Knight-Lieutenant!,” he barked in his best command voice. “Recite to me the oath you have sworn!”

Drill got the better of Ser Alrik as he snapped to attention. “Ser! ‘In the name of the Maker, I solemnly vow and promise to faithfully serve the Rule of the Templar Order, to obey the commands of the officers placed above me, and to freely defend and protect all who are imperilled by the abuse of magic! So help and guide me the Maker’s light!’ Ser!”

“And why, knight-lieutenant, is it that we swear to protect people from _magic_ , and not from _mages_? Answer the question!” Ser Otto said nothing. “It is because the mages do not serve us. _We_ serve _them_ , like we serve any other person in Thedas! When you stand guard in the halls of the Circle, it is not to dominate and rule over mages, it is to protect them from themselves and each other! That is why, lieutenant, a Templar does not refer to his charges as ‘freaks’ or ‘robes’! That is why, lieutenant, a Templar does not ‘show them their place’! And that is why, lieutenant, contrary to the rumours that have come to my ears, a Templar _never_ takes liberties with the female Tranquil! Remember that! Now report to the gatehouse for Medium Guard and take the time to reflect on the virtue of humility!”

Ser Otto had caught himself and was making an effort not to stand straight. He was fuming, that much was clear. After succinctly demonstrating the possibility of saluting in an insulting manner, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the mess.

Someone around him gave a light cough. Someone else suppressed a laugh. Then, the officers returned to their private conversations, but the atmosphere in the mess was strained. As Cullen sat down to wolf down his pie before heading up to the Knight-Commander’s solar, he realised, firstly, that Alrik’s CO was going to give him hell over this, and secondly, that some poor mage girl was going to suffer for his outburst.

Still, he felt grimly satisfied. In his experience, there were two types of Templars who disgraced the Order by their very existence: lyrium-addled washouts, like Samson, and sadists, like Alrik. The former tended not to last very long. The latter could rise to the highest ranks. It wasn’t that Cullen thought magic wasn’t dangerous, or even that mages weren’t dangerous. A mage was a living weapon, and like every weapon they were a threat to everyone around them if they weren’t properly handled. But mages were also people who were fighting their own daily battles against the magic inside of them, and deserved the Templars’ protection just the same as anyone else, from themselves and from each other. He acutely remembered the events of Kinloch Hold, the look on Amell’s face as put his gun to her brow …

Most of the other officers of the garrison were already waiting in the Knight-Commander’s office. “I suggest we start,” Senior Knight-Captain Trent said as he entered. “The others will just have to be filled in.”

Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard had remained seated at her desk, and still she dwarfed the officers standing around her. She wore the standard female version of No. 2 (trousers, of course – he had trouble imagining the commander in a skirt). Her shoulder boards and gold-laced collar were studded with the single sunburst that denoted her rank, but nothing else should have set her apart from the other officers. Nevertheless, her presence seemed to fill the room, and all fell silent when she looked up from her desk.

“I have received word from a contact in Val Royeaux,” she stated without introduction. “Rumour has it Her Perfection the Divine is concerned about the mage situation in Kirkwall. I have it on good authority that she will send an agent to inspect us within the month. A seeker.”

Suddenly it seemed a lot colder.

“Now, I am aware that the situation with the Circle and the city is tense. I expect everyone to be on their best behaviour. We will maintain a full High Guard at the Chantry again, and I expect all knights to be present for Sunday services. When dealing with the mages, be courteous but maintain the necessary distance. Fraternisation is to be strictly disciplined. Is that clear?”

Nodding all around him.

“On the other hand, this is our opportunity to stand as an example for the rest of the Order. I want us to present the image of a modern, but secure and _firm_ Circle. There are more blood mages in Kirkwall every year than in most other cities in a decade. This cannot stand. So far, we have allowed the mages too many liberties, they have taken advantage of our goodwill. We will crack down on that. New standing orders are as follows: mages are confined to their cells barring special permit. Any mage found in possession of subversive material, _especially_ the writings of ‘the Anders mage’ is to be severely disciplined. All teaching of apprentices is to be supervised by a knight-templar, or two in classes on the Spirit School. Unauthorised assemblies of three or more mages are to be dispersed immediately. Any questions?”

Knight-Lieutenant Adkins raised a hand before he could. One of the agents under his command, a good man. “Ser, what about the MCIS mages? Are they also confined to quarters?”

“All MCIS operations are suspended until further notice. Establishing the programme in the first place was a mistake. It may serve other Circles well, but I have seen no evidence that our branch is serving its purpose.”

Cullen’s jaw dropped. What the … “With all due respect, knight-commander,” he spoke up, “we have apprehended four Maleficars this month alone. The only thing stopping us from going after more is a lack of manpower. If the Service were more adequately-staffed …”

“I have made my decision, captain. I grant that you have done some good for this city, but the risks of having mages unleashed and out in the open is not worth the benefits … as recent events show.”

“I accept full responsibility for the incident last week, ser. All our mages are carefully screened for any hint of subversiveness, and …”

“Enough!”

He fell silent. There were a few more detail questions from different section commanders, then the officers were dismissed. “Knight-Captain Rutherford, a word.” He remained behind when the other Templars streamed out of the commander’s office. Knight-Lieutenant Thrask gave him an oddly sympathetic nod on the way out.

Cullen stiffly stepped towards Meredith’s desk, standing at parade rest. “You wanted to speak to me, ser?” He wondered if this was going to be about the business with Alrik in the mess earlier. He was still reeling over the bomb she’d dropped on him regarding the MCIS. They’d done good work, after all, and Maker knew Kirkwall of all places _needed_ transmundane policing …

The commander’s eyes were transfixed on her laptop’s screen. “I want you to have no misapprehensions regarding this matter, Ser Cullen. This is not a punishment. The MCIS was an experiment, nothing more, and it has failed to give the results we expected from it. Time to move on. I’m sure you would appreciate a break from working with the mages; I know how tiresome it is, having to watch one’s back at all times. More so with your experiences.”

“Ser.”

“I understand you were trained as a Hunter at Kinloch Hold, is that correct?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Capital. I’m putting you and your men in charge of finding the neutralising the dangerous heretic known as the ‘Anders mage’. Your investigative skills should come in handy there. Are you at all familiar with the name?”

“The author of the _Manifesto of Free Mages_ , as I recall. A well-known radical theorist and rebel organiser in the city’s underground.”

“Indeed.” Meredith sharply looked at him. “He is more than just a local menace, though. His heretical writings are read by mages all across Thedas, these days. The Knight-Vigilant has voiced his … concern.”

“I understand, ser. Where do I start?”

“We already know who he is. What we need is proof. Earlier attempts to arrest him were met with massive protests from the League of Ferelden-born Kirkwallers, the viscount, and several prominent private citizens. The last time, I received a letter from the Hero of Ferelden herself, claiming the _bastard_ was under Grey Warden jurisdiction.”

“If he’s a Warden, there is nothing we can do.”

“Not unless he is caught _in flagranti delicti_ inciting rebellion against our Holy Mother Chantry and promoting heretical teachings. A Warden who involves himself in matters political or religious is in breach of his vows, and there are precedents. Sophia Dryden of Ferelden, back in the Storm Age, was executed by King Arland after making a bid for the throne. If we can get the Anders Mage’s confession, the First Warden won’t have grounds to complain.” She smirked, briefly. “This is important, Ser Cullen. Innocent people all over Thedas are counting on us to prevent a mage rebellion before it happens. And I’m counting on you. Dismissed.”

 

 

_“Were you followed?”_

_“No. I have the documents.”_

_“Let me see …”_

_“I don’t have much time.”_

_“She knows more than I thought. I’ll relocate. Can you lay a false trace?”_

_“Maybe. I don’t want to blow my cover.”_

_“Then don’t. [Laughter] Dammit, commander. I knew you still cared … to write to Meredith … brazen as ever.”_

_“I’m sorry?”_

_“It’s not important. Anything on your end?”_

_“We’ve orders to crack down. Strengthened security measures. The commander is expecting a seeker to inspect us soon.”_

_“A seeker? The Divine is not playing around. Do you have a name?”_

_“Last I heard, the rumour was Pentaghast.”_

_“No chances there, then. Can you work around the new security?”_

_“No. Maybe. There’s a few things I could try.”_

_“Try them. As long as you get them off the island without being discovered, we can handle the rest.”_

_“I’ll inform you if I get a name. I need to go back.”_

_“Stay strong. You’re doing good work, friend.”_

_“I wish I knew what you’re planning.”_

_“No. You don’t. Trust me.”_

 

 

She awoke lying on her stomach. Her neck felt hot, and something was stinging. Bethany groaned and tried to turn around, only to find she had been strapped to the bed. A gentle hand was laid on her shoulder. “You’re awake … don’t try to turn around. You were badly hurt.”

“Ella … that you?”

Her apprentice sighed in relief. “Yes, master. Good to see your memory is working alright, the doctor feared there might be brain damage.”

She opened her eyes, blinked a little until she had adjusted to the bright daylight. She was in her bedroom. A large vase of flowers was sat on her bedside table, surrounded by postcards in various pastel colours. Ella was kneeling by her bed, though she noticed the armchair from her study and an open textbook behind her. Bright girl. “What … what happened? I feel like I was … hit by a lorry …” That was putting it lightly, but her wit had not yet woken up.

From the corner of her eyes, she could see Ella evading her gaze. “Uh … you were hurt. While fighting a blood mage. Ser Cullen …” She broke off.

It was enough. “He … Smote me, right?”

“I … yes. He did. He came by a few days ago. He seemed very upset about it.”

She closed her eyes. “I see.” Thinking back, she found it hard to blame him. She _had_ fired into a crowd … Father had always warned her against using magic recklessly. _When you use magic to attack someone, you can make a moral choice_ , he had told her. _But when you hurt someone by accident, the victim is likely to be an innocent._ In Ser Cullen’s shoes … she might have done the same thing.

She tried to raise herself up. “Be a dear and untie me.”

“Right. Promise you won’t strain yourself, though. Try not to put any pressure on your neck … here, let me help you.”

With Ella’s help, Bethany sat up straight on the edge of her bed. “Did Ser Cullen catch the killer?,” she asked once she was no longer seeing stars.

“I don’t think he did. Apparently he was trying to administer first aid after Smiting you.” She looked reproachful. “Things like this shouldn’t happen in the first place. If you ask me, you should go to the First Enchanter about this. He came by and brought flowers, by the way. A lot of people did, the doctor had to send most of them away.”

“Oh, that’s … nice …” So Cullen had not been able to go after the murderer. But there must still be a trail to follow, there always was if one was fast enough … “How long was I out? What day is it?”

“Almost eight days, master. It’s Wednesday.”

Eight days! By now, the murderer’s trace must have gone cold. But if he was on the run, he’d kill again, and again, and again, until his summoning worked …“I need to speak to Ser Cullen. There’s a few things we can try …”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, master. I hear the MCIS has been dissolved. There’s all kinds of new security measures in place …”

“Oh, Maker have mercy. This is my fault, isn’t it?”

“Don’t say that. The Templars were just waiting for an opportunity to crack down on us, they’d have found something sooner or later.”

She shook her head, inadvertently making her neck burn. “The world already fears mages. All I have done is given them more proof of how right they are.”

“But they’re not! We’re not dangerous, ma’am, that’s why we’re trained in magic. Good, useful magic. We’re just … people.”

“Ella, one doesn’t have to be a blood mage to be dangerous. You’re training to be a Force Mage.[24] I’ve taught you to lift the high table in the Great Hall with your mind, and I’ve seen you telekinetically balance raw eggs on top of each other. Anyone who can control gravity with so little effort is dangerous, not to mention the other primal forces.”

“But I’d never use it to hurt people!”

Something in her said, _would you? Not even when those you loved where at risk?_ Bethany said, “I know that. But do _they_?”

“I …” Ella avoided her gaze. “I see your point.” She wrung her hands in her laps. Quietly, she said: “But this is no way to live.”

“Ella …”

“I’m sixteen years old, master, and I don’t I remember ever being outside the Gallows. I’ve never … I’ve never been free to go where I wanted, to do what I wanted, without having to worry about some uniformed thug like Ser Alrik blowing my brains out. I’ve never felt rain on my skin. I’ve never been to a real school, I’ve never eaten fast food, I’ve never talked to anyone _normal_  …” She sniffed. “It’s easy for you to say I should be happy in the Circle, master. You’ve been an apostate for most of your life. You’ve _been_ outside. I just … I want that chance.”

Bethany didn’t know how to reply to that. It was her job to reassure her apprentice, help her over her doubts. But she had experienced both sides of the coin – life in the Circle and as an apostate. To her, the Circle _was_ freedom. It had its downsides – everything had – but what was so terrible about walls and guards if the alternative was always having to look over one’s shoulder, always watching one’s words, never staying in one place for too long … the only walls that mattered were those you allowed yourself to be constrained by. Silently, she drew her apprentice into a hug as she cried on her shoulder.

Ella did not take long to regain her composure, she never did. Bethany was fond of her. Other children needed to have curiosity – a vital virtue for someone whose only choices in life were “researcher” or “dead” – drilled into them, but for Ella it came as natural as breathing. It was her honour and her pleasure to continue teaching the girl even after her Harrowing and considered her a good friend. “I … I’m sorry,” she said, drying her eyes with one of Bethany’s handkerchiefs. “I shouldn’t put this on you, least of all now.”

“It’s alright. That’s what I’m here for.” Her thoughts returned to the murderer. It was clear to her what he was trying to do, and why. She even had some idea of how. _Wherever there is an ideology, there are always lambs willing to be led to the altar._ Maybe the killer had once been like Ella, a frustrated teenager stuck behind Circle walls. Maybe Ella or a girl much like her would be his next victim. He had to be stopped.

And if the MCIS had been dissolved, if Ser Cullen could do nothing about it, it was up to her to do so.

“I need to ask you to help me with something,” Bethany heard herself saying. She stood up and walked to her desk in the neighbouring room, wrote a quick note on a piece of paper and handed it to Ella. “Do you know Knight-Lieutenant Thrask Ulgo? Tall man, ginger hair and beard?”

She nodded, frowning. “I’ve talked to him a few times. Why?”

“Give this to him. If someone asks you what it is, say I’m asking him come talk to me about mediating between Ser Cullen and me. He’s a mutual, uh, friend, so that shouldn’t get you into trouble.”

Ella turned the message back and forth. “But that’s exactly what it says,” she pointed out. “Why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? Can’t you just send him an email?”

_No, because the Templars watch our Internet usage._ “Just give it to him. Please?”

Her apprentice frowned. Clearly, she was suspecting already. Clever girl. “Alright, but promise you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

“Deal.”

After Ella left, Bethany took a quick shower and got dressed. She selected her clothes on the basis of inconspicuousness and practicality: a white blouse, charcoal grey blazer, skinny jeans and sensible flat shoes. When she attempted to tie her sister’s old red kerchief around her neck, she was acutely reminded that the upper layers of her skin had yet to regrow and had to hold on to her desk. As a compromise, she stuffed the handkerchief in one of her jacket’s inside pockets; there was no way in the Void she was leaving it behind. To her surprise, her magesaber was in its usual place on her desk, but she decided against taking it. The staff made her recognisable, and she did not, strictly speaking, need it.

Then, she waited.

Towards noon, someone knocked at her cell door. “What is this about?,” Ser Thrask asked upon entering, waving her note in his hand. “We both know, enchanter, that you would talk to Ser Cullen yourself if you wanted to.”

Bethany closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The moment of truth, she told herself. Then, she looked up at him. “I know who you are and what you’ve been doing. Tell Anders and my sister I want out. It has to be tonight.”

 

 

_“It is time that our movement should openly declare its aims and its grievances. I have arranged to meet Grand Cleric Elthina of Kirkwall on neutral ground. The city is reaching its boiling point, and the tribulations we are subjected to have become unbearable. Maker be willing, this might be our last chance for peace.”_

– _Update on Kirkwal_ l, posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

The good thing about raiding your own safe houses was that you had fortified them. The bad thing about it was that you had fortified them. Warily, Hawke looked up to the second-floor windows, which she knew were bulletproof, mostly because she had paid for them. Above the door was an unobtrusive camera regarding them quietly. Hawke tried to keep her assault rifle out of its field of view as Varric rang the doorbell. “Hello? Anyone in?”

After half a minute or so, there was a shuffling sound. “What do you want?,” a voice asked over the intercom. Terrified.

“It’s me, Varric Thethras. We’re friends. Can we come in?”

“A… aren’t you supposed to say something like ‘in Antiva, Harvestmere is a summer month’? Or ‘the dragon rides in circles’?”

“Uh, sure. Did you know that ‘hawks soar all the higher when they’re dry’?”

She growled. “Laugh it off, dwarf …” Hawke hadn’t slept the last few nights, and felt nauseous more often than not. She looked down and noticed that her hands were shaking, that would do wonders for her aim. At this point, she was sorely tempted to give up on the viscountcy … she needed a blighted drink.

“I … I suppose that’s alright …,” the voice said. The door opened. Before it could close again, Varric had already invited himself inside. She followed as the dwarf began to cast his spell on the unwitting kid.

Hawke looked around the living room. Signs of habitation, the sort of habitation people above the mature old age of 20 generally frowned at. Couldn’t be more than one person, though, as evidenced by the way clothes and garbage were spread around the couch. She picked up a few books – a grimoire, Anders’ manifesto, a science-fiction novel … Nothing out of the ordinary. They were wasting their time.

Anders wanted the killer, for whatever reason, _before_ the enemy could find him. She didn’t care about the political side of their work, but he had impressed upon her in no uncertain terms what could be done with the poor sod. Anders was firmly convinced he could be made to confess being a Templar agent provocateur, one way or the other. And the implications of _that_  … well, suffice it to say some very bad things would happen, or some very good things, depending on one’s perspective. _She_ firmly intended to be on the latter side. She wondered what the viscount would do.

Her phone buzzed, a new message. Hawke slung her rifle over her shoulder and had a look. The text was from Shield, better known to her as Ser Thrask Ulgo, their man on the inside. _Very bad timing, mate._ At this point, they didn’t have the spare resources for that kind of op. Still, she had a look at the message; it never hurt to …

What she read made her drop the phone in shock.

This was not how she had thought it would happen. So long had she imagined this moment, its arrival felt more like a dream, a hallucination than reality. _This is not the time_ , said a nasty little voice in the back of her head, _there are greater things at_ _stake_. She ignored those concerns. There might not be another chance. Her eyes were gleaming. With trembling fingers, she picked up the phone and dialled Isabela’s number.

Varric had come to investigate and was looking over her, er, elbow. “That’s odd,” he murmured. “Why now of all times?”

“Does it matter? I’ll need your help.”

“Blondie won’t like this. He won’t like this at all. He’s planning something big, you know.”

Hawke closed her eyes. “If he complains, tell him where to put his plans. Tonight, I’ve got more important things to do.”

 

 

_“My talks with Elthina have failed. She did not recognise the severity of the situation, nor prove amenable to a reasonable solution. Our path is clear now. There can be no compromise, no negotiation any longer. There is not much time left on the clock […] In this hour, more than ever, it is important that we remain firm in our convictions, that we stick together, and that we put the Cause before personal feelings. Only thus can we be free. Only thus can there be justice. Prepare yourselves, brothers and sisters.”_

– _The die is cast_ , posted by the_anders_mage

 

 

The clock struck two.

Bethany rose from her desk and stepped to the window. Down there, on the water, she thought she could spy movement – a small boat, skilfully evading the searchlights. Her phone buzzed, Bela. _In position. Hope you know what you’re doing, sweetness._ Bethany carefully laid the phone down on her desk, straightened out a crease in her blouse and quickly, careful not to irritate her wound, tied Marian’s scarlet neckerchief around her neck. Then, she regarded the obstacle before her.

She smiled. Her father had always said that any halfway competent mage could escape a Circle. The hard part was staying outside. She shouldn’t have any trouble, then. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. Maker, she hoped Ella wouldn’t get in trouble over this. Still, she had no choice … Bethany raised her hand.

The wall before her groaned under the pressure. Cracks appeared in the wallpaper, then plaster crumbled off it like dust. Then, something giving way, the great limestone blocks around her window broke out of the masonry, moved towards her, stopped, and parted. Shielding her eyes against the stiff breeze, Bethany walked forward, into the gap in the wall. Below her, a drop of at least forty metres to the sea. To her left and her right, watchtowers, with searchlights scouring the bay.

Insurmountable, some would say.

Bethany closed her eyes and let the magic flow through her. She acutely felt the mass of every particle in her body, and the gravitic forces holding them together.

She stepped over the edge.

For a moment, she felt light, like she was floating, then she found her bearing and set a foot firmly on the outside wall. Then, the other. She stood upright, looking straight ahead to the sea below her. No, not below: in front. The only thing below her feet, her gravitational centre, were the Gallows. That made it easier. She began walking, thankful she had elected to wear sensible flat shoes. Rapid winds tore at her, billowed her jacket, but Bethany’s footing was as firm as though she was walking on even, horizontal ground.

By the time she could clearly see the small  speedboat in front of her, she was drenched in sweat and breathing hard. Her headache had started again, and she distinctly remembered Ella telling her not to strain herself. Bethany ground her teeth. This was nothing …

She could see Isabela and _Marian_ looking up at her, worry plain in their faces, her sister poised to jump into the sea after her should she fall … Well, wouldn’t want her to get wet. She took another step, and another, carefully maintaining the gravitic field. There was a reason most magic was cast in the form of carefully optimised, formulaic and peer-reviewed spells: it took far less mana, and left less room for error. The problem being that, at some point, you were going to run into a problem not covered by any spells. But Bethany had not gotten to where she was – one of the youngest enchanters in the Kirkwall Circle’s history, despite her background – by relying only on the spells in her grimoire.

She’d done the maths. She’d taken a lyrium pill after dinner. She took another step, and then some more, and then she was lying in Marian’s arms. “Oh, sweet Maker, I … I thought you were gonna …”

“I’m alright,” she quickly assured her sister, straightening herself. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “It’s good to see you. You look great.” It was true. There were dark rings under Marian’s eyes and her hair was even more dishevelled than usual, but the vibrancy she hadn’t seen in ages had returned to her eyes. The sky unclouded, dull steel sharpened, the stormy sea calmed at last.

Marian pressed a long, deep kiss on her lips, one hand holding her tight, the other buried in her hair. Bethany was in no mood to return it – not to mention the resolution she’d made last time – but did so anyway, if only to appease her sister. Not that she didn’t like it, but there were more important things to do … Isabela seemed to agree. “We should get going, my dears. Not that I mind the view.”

Bethany blushed a little as her sister told the Rivaini to get a life and them away. She considered Isabela a dear friend (and Maker knew some of the links she had sent her over the years had been, ah, interesting), but did she _have_ to say things like that? “It’s good to see you too, Bela,” she mildly said. “I’d have thought you’d be up in sunny Antiva this time of year.”

Isabela shrugged. “Rialto’s so stuck-up about being debauched. Kirkwall’s more fun.”

Taking her hand, Marian made her sit on a bench at the back of the tiny boat. “I’ve taken care of everything. First, we take the Intercity to Starkhaven. From there, we’ve got a flight to Minrathous, and I’ve already looked at a few houses in the city …”

Bethany had to admit, the thought was appealing. To live freely together with Marian, even in Tevinter … or especially in Tevinter? People _did_ say that there was nowhere one could live better than there, assuming one had the qualities the Tevinters were looking for.[25] On the other hand … it _was_ Tevinter. Not that it mattered. She had a job to do, here, in Kirkwall. “What about mother?”

Marian made a dismissive gesture. “She won’t mind having the house to herself for a bit. If you want, we can always have her join us.”

She bit her lip. That was so very much like Marian. Live at the speed of light, never plan more than three steps ahead, and damn the world. She loved her sister, but she had a tendency to divide the world around her into ‘need to kill’ and ‘irrelevant’. Mother, clearly, fell into the latter category.

Her sister cleared her throat, staring down at her boots. “I … about last time we spoke …” Bethany held her breath. Maker, not this, please, not this … what had she been _thinking_? What _had_ she been thinking? They’d been together for what seemed like forever, and they’d been _happy_  … Even now, when she looked at Marian, something primal inside Bethany stirred. Hunger, pain, longing. It was hard to describe. She had lain awake at night, mortifying herself over the certain knowledge that what they were doing was _wrong,_ but at day they had been inseparable. And now … to look in her sister’s steel-blue eyes, which were so full of life, of hope, of bliss … She felt like a young girl again, blushing and stammering after the first stolen kiss behind Old Barlin’s barn …

_What_ had she been _thinking_? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said!,” she burst out – or would have, anyway, had the speedboat not collided with the quay. Marian almost lost her bearing, but both Isabela the sailor and Bethany the Force Mage stood firm in the swaying vessel. She closed her mouth and banished the thought. This would have to wait for a happier time.

A sleek black car was waiting for them at the quay. It wasn’t Marian’s beloved Honnleath Clinton _Vanquish_ ,[26] the only bit of luxury she allowed herself, and Bethany idly wondered where it had come from. The Amell fortune was considerable these days and continued to grow through prudent investments, but it was not bottomless. She quickly said farewell to Isabela and got in. Marian had already started the motor and was waiting anxiously.

At this time of night, Kirkwall’s streets were almost empty. With Cullen, it was a twenty minutes’ drive to the train station. Marian got them there in ten, having decided that speed limits were not applicable to her. As Bethany held on to her seat, she thought that was a good sign: her sister was clearly having fun. Maker, she was even humming to herself. And she was sober – Bethany could not overstate the importance of that. She hadn’t seen her sister sober since the Deep Roads. She was _happy_.

Guilt gnawed at Bethany. Was it really worth destroying that? After everything she had endured … Marian deserved a bit of happiness. As she contemplated this, her sister took her hand, smiled at her. “Don’t fret. Everything will be fine, I promise.” Bethany could not help but return the smile, her brain having taken momentary leave. Maker, how she loved her right now …

It took a minute or two until her heartbeat had returned to its normal rate. “How do you propose to get me out of the country?,” she asked when they entered the monumental, lavishly decorated main hall of Marais Station. “I don’t have any documents, and they’ll know I’m a Circle mage if they examine me.” The Templars had found there were few methods for identifying fugitive mages easier than a serial number tattooed on the upper arm.

Without breaking her stride, Marian handed her a passport, bound in burgundy leather. “Then it’s a good thing Miss Valeria Vesalius of Minrathous isn’t a Circle mage.” The photograph inside the passport was one of hers, taken a few years back. She’d never seen a Tevinter passport, but everything appeared in order. Whoever Marian and Anders had for this, they worked fast and accurately. Marian examined one of the large timetables above their heads. “Looks like the 2:56 to Ansburg via Starkhaven is fifteen minutes late,” she noted, frowning.

“Is that a problem?”

The reassuring smile was back on Marian’s face as quickly as it had vanished. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got some time before our flight.”

“That’s not what I meant. They’ll know I’m gone by now.”

“Thrask bought us some time, though at this point it might cost him his job. They won’t be looking at the station for at least two more hours, and once we’re on the train, we’re safe. Starkhaven doesn’t have a chapter of the Order anymore and the new prince is on our side, so it’ll take at least five hours or so until they can get permission to send someone. Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything.”

Marian found them seats in a waiting area that weren’t particularly filthy. Bethany noticed how one could see most of the main hall from there, and could spot three nearby emergency exits. Doubtless, Marian had also considered several other escape routes. She wondered if her sister was armed? As far as she knew, she’d never been unarmed when she could at all avoid it since coming back from the war.

Bethany glanced at her watch. 2:54 in the morning. Not much time. “Sister,” she begun, haltingly, “what do you think will happen here without you?”

Marian did not reply. She could see guilt and worry eating away at her. Bethany had always found it odd how quickly her sister – a washed-out Blight veteran, a refugee without a penny to her name – had become so … vital to the city. The poor depended on her, middling folk looked up to her, and the elite of the city feted her as a heroine. Even the viscount had taken notice; when the dispute with Ostwick over Mornmouth Rock[27] had flared up again last year, other nations would have sent a warship – Kirkwall had sent Hawke, and Ostwick had withdrawn. And then there were Anders and his underground mages …

They all had their responsibilities.

As graciously as she could manage, she rose. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll come with you. It’s not safe.”

Smiling wryly, Bethany leaned forward to kiss Marian’s brow. “I love you too, sis. Be safe. Now, _Sleep …_ ” For a moment, her sister struggled against her spell. Then, her body went limp as she slumped back in the grimy waiting room chair. _Be safe._

Unaccosted, Bethany walked out of the train station and hailed a cab.

To her pleasant surprise, there not only existed extant internet cafés in the city,[28] but the cabby also knew the location of one that was open 24/7. Seated at one of the more secluded terminals with a cup of overpriced coffee, Bethany thanked the Maker for Ella and her rebellious inclinations. It was amazing what one could learn about the internal structure of the Mage Underground just from notes confiscated from her students. Within an hour, she had created personas on half a dozen sites. Most of them were modelled after Ella in mannerisms, speech and views to give them realism and depth: but Ella gone bad, the kind of girl Ella might have become under the watch of someone like Ser Otto Alrik. Another hour and ten shillings later, people were trying to comfort the poor, abused Circle runaway who no longer wanted for anything but death, but wished for freedom for all mages.

Two more hours passed. Outside, the sun had gone up. By now, the Templars would have ordered her phylactery from Cumberland. Marian would have woken up by now, mad with worry. Then came the message she’d been waiting for. They chatted for the better part of an hour before he sprung the question. _You want to die? Are you sure?_

Thinking hard, she sipped on her coffee. If the person on the other side was who she thought it would be, he would be suspicious, but also desperate. A thin line to walk, for her. _Yes … out here I’m just a waste of oxygen, and I’d rather die than go back to the circle._

_I understand. It’s not a step to be taken lightly, though_

_I’ve … tried to,_ she replied. _Tried to end it. I couldn’t. I was too scared. Can you help me?_

There was a long, long pause.

_I can help you, and you can help me make sure no one else has to suffer like you did. Do you want to meet up?_

_“Where’s Hawke?”_

_“Won’t be joining us. Halfway to Tevinter by now.”_

_“Blast it … doesn’t she realise that freedom for all mages is also the best way to achieve freedom for Bethany? She’s always so damn impulsive … Varric, we_ need _her, now of all times.”_

_“Well, you’re not getting her. Maker knows the girls have earned a rest.”_

_“What about the killer?”_

_“He can’t hide much longer.”_

_“You need to hurry. If not for Hawke … we need his confession.”_

_“Doesn’t sound all that … just, does it, Blondie? Forcing a lie out of him. We both know what’s really going on here.”_

_“We must all make sacrifices. Don’t think I don’t regret the necessity of it. You have to find him, Varric.”_

 

 

She had been watching the warehouse for almost an hour now, though at this point she was having trouble concentrating – thanks to the combined efforts of too little sleep and the pale blisters on her neck, which had started to pulse with pain. A warehouse! And by all appearances, it was abandoned. Bethany wasn’t sure whether to compliment the killer on his sense of narrative convention or roll her eyes at the overuse of the ‘clandestine meeting in an abandoned warehouse’ trope. Middle of Darktown, too. Classy.

So far, she’d stayed out of sight, hidden in the shadow of an alleyway on the other side of the street. She was fairly certain that, while from here, she could see both entrances to the warehouse, she could not be seen from its windows. Not that it mattered, there had been no sign of movement from within. There were a few spells she could try – _Reveal Life_ and _Scry_ came to mind – but any use of magic would also reveal her location to the killer, if he was inside.

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to noon. Where would Marian be looking for her now? And where the Templars?

It had started to rain, and she was feeling rather peckish, so Bethany decided it was as good a time as any. She stepped out in the street and knocked on the rusted steel door that might with some imagination be called the warehouse’s side entrance. After half a minute or so had passed, she pressed down the door handle and entered.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom inside the warehouse. Whatever it might once have been used for, now it was devoid of life and purpose. Seagulls were nesting in the rafters, and rain fell through gaps in the rusted tin roof. Bethany tensed. This place was deeply suspicious … Carefully, she took a few steps forward. If only she had her staff with her …

She sensed a flicker of magic behind her and the only thing she could think of before gentle sleep enveloped her was: _Oh, bugger._

When Bethany awoke, she was sitting on the concrete floor, leaning against a pipe behind her … and handcuffed to it. “What … _oh, Maker …_ ” Her head was throbbing violently, and the Smite burn at her neck had inflamed. What was worse, though, was that her mana had been drained. Bethany tried to focus on the residual magic seeping through from the Fade, but found the subtle loose threads in the fabric of the Veil impossible to grasp.

She opened her eyes. The warehouse … across from her, on a folding chair, was seated a spotty blonde youth in worn clothing. She wouldn’t have recognised him on the street. He looked up when she spoke, almost dropping the large kitchen knife he’d been turning in his hands. “You … you’re awake … ah, damn it, _Mana Cleanse!_ ”

Bethany cringed as all the air was knocked out of her lungs.[29] The killer’s eyes widened in surprise for an instant before carefully turning blank. “Look,” said he, “I know who you are. I don’t want to hurt you. Just … just tell me where the Templars are …”

“What do you mean?,” she managed to press forth, gasping for mana, “What Templars are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me! You’re the mage from the hospital. The Templar lapd… _bitch!_ You must have brought them here … I just _know_ they’re watching us …”

“I’m just here to talk to you. My name’s Bethany. The Templars don’t know I’m here. If they did, we wouldn’t be having this, er, conversation.”

“Bullshit. Why should I believe a word you say?”

Bethany scowled. She was _not_ having a good week. “Take a good look at my neck. That’s where my handler Smote and nearly killed me. Do you really think I would be sticking my neck out for the Templars after this?”

The killer studied her with wary eyes. “I believe you,” he finally said. “But I don’t trust you. So if you’re not here on the Templars’ orders, what do you want from me? And what have you done to the girl who was going to meet me here? Oh, and _Mana Cleanse._ ”

Once she had recovered, Bethany replied: “Misora? That was me. I wanted to talk to you.”

“For starters, why are you doing this? Why did you murder Shari and Sally?”

Her interlocutor’s face turned ashen and he evaded her gaze. Bethany used the opportunity to feel around her handcuffs. Cold steel, fairly tight, the chain short and firm … no safety release. Of course not. Expecting him to use some sort of toy had been overly optimistic, these days you could easily get proper heavy-duty handcuffs online – apparently, some people valued authenticity in their bedrooms. “I didn’t want to kill them …”

Guiltily, Bethany returned her attention to the murderer in front of her. “But you did.”

He nodded. “Shari … we met online, just after I’d gotten out of the Starkhaven Circle. Maker, she was so kind to me. The first person I’d ever met who didn’t judge me for what I am – for what we are. But, at the same time, she was … depressed. That’s the right word, I think. She thought she was worthless. That’s what her mother always told her. And she said … she said she didn’t want to live in a world in which normal, decent people like her family could _see_ what was happening in the Circles and call it _right._ ” Tears had appeared in his grey eyes. “I _tried_ , I tried so hard to help her. To repay her for her kindness, and because I wanted to … to protect her. Save her.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “She won the argument, and made me kill her for the cause. She d…died in my arms.”

“You helped her kill herself. That’s assisted suicide, not murder,” Bethany pointed out.

“Don’t say it like that!,” he suddenly lashed out, startling her. The knife was back in his hands. “I _killed_ her. I should have kept her from harming herself. Things I could have said, people I could have told … there can be no excuse. I murdered Shari. And it’s not going to be in vain … _Mana Cleanse._ ”

She hadn’t even had time to recover any of her mana. Bethany gasped, doubled over. Maker … Trying to recover, she uttered: “So is that why you killed Sally, too? You realised your summoning wasn’t working and thought a girl on life support wouldn’t object?”

“I … no, I wouldn’t …” He got to his feet and started pacing back and forth before her. “I mean … I didn’t _ask_ her to sacrifice her life. She volunteered. I didn’t … I didn’t push her or anything …”

“And you think Sally would have killed herself even if you hadn’t suggested using her blood?”

The murderer grimaced. “I … when you put it like that …”

“And still, your ritual didn’t work,” Bethany continued. “So what now? Are you just going to keep murdering young women until it works? Who decides when the price is too high?”

He gave her a steely look. “Their deaths won’t be in vain,” he said. “I won’t let them.” They both glanced at the knife in his hand.

“What exactly is it you’re planning?,” she questioned, her mind working in top gear. “I know you’re trying to summon a demon. That never ends well.”

A brief, triumphant smile flashed over his face. “It’s not a demon. It’s a spirit. A spirit of Freedom, and the rarest kind – one that doesn’t mind being summoned into the physical world for a just cause. It’s been summoned at least twice before: once by the annulled Circle at Dairsmuid in 6:34, and once … once by the Circle of Starkhaven, three years ago.”

Bethany frowned. “I thought Starkhaven burned down? An accident in the High Energy Magic department.”[30]

He grimly chuckled. “That’s what _they_ said. I was there, though. The Libertarians hadn’t told us anything, but then they suddenly pooled their mana and started the ritual in the Greenhill Room, in front of everyone. Then the Templars came … I saw them gun down all twenty-six members of our Libertarian fraternity without hesitation, including the one who’d denounced the others. Maker, they even slit their throats once they were down. Those daggers aren’t just for show … the next week, they purged the Circle. Faked a fire to destroy all the artefacts and books. A lot of us … disappeared. A few friends and I managed to run, but most weren’t so lucky.”

“I’m sorry,” Bethany said. “That must have been traumatic.”

“It was. But more importantly, just before the Templars burst in the room, I _saw_ it. Something coming through the Veil. It _worked!_ I’ve done experiments, I _know_ I can do it. Imagine it, sister, all mages freed by the work of a mighty, benevolent spirit … I just need just a bit more power …”

She couldn’t keep herself from shaking her head in disbelief. There was no functional difference between a demon and a spirit, once summoned. _Everyone_ knew that. “And what then? What if the spirit turns against you? What if it is corrupted? A lot of blood will flow. A lot of it will be mage blood.”

The killer nodded solemnly. “That is a risk we have to take. You must see the abuse, the crimes, the … the _injustices_ we are submitted to every day by the Templars. Have you been paying attention to the tranquil lately? No one ever does, I know, until it’s too late and there’s a sunburst brand on your best friend’s brow. But there’s been a lot more of them lately, here, in Kirkwall. Dark rumours, even out here in the community.”

Bethany grit her teeth. “You don’t need to tell me. I know them all. Ser Alrik and his cronies are monsters. And I won’t deny that there’s a lot of things wrong with the Circles, but you can’t honestly believe that using blood magic to summon a de… spirit is a solution!”

“Then what else is? Do you think I’ve taken this decision lightly? Do you think the mages at Starkhaven and Dairsmuid woke up one morning and decided to risk their lives for their freedom? Every day we try to negotiate with the Templars over tiny little concessions, they tighten our chains. How long until they just decide to kill us all? Or maybe you’ve been shackled for so long that you can’t remember the taste of freedom …”

“I’ll have you know I lived the greater part of my life as an apostate, and it’s not a life I’d wish on anyone.” And she had been one of the lucky ones, too: had had a family to support and protect her at great discomfort to themselves, and a talented, widely-studied Circle mage for a father and teacher.

The youth seemed surprised, but quickly caught himself. “It would be, if not for the Templars. If nothing else, mages should be free to choose for themselves whether they want to spend their lives locked up in some tower, without fear of being murdered if they don’t. Don’t you agree, Serah Bethany?” His tone was almost pleading. Her suspicions of his intentions hardened. This was not how a man who’d murder her for the power in her blood would speak. He was trying to bring her around to his point of view – to convince her to willingly submit to the knife. He wouldn’t murder her not because he believed his cause was wrong, but because he _couldn’t._

Bethany pretended to consider his arguments in silence. In truth, there was none she had not heard before. Most of them were valid enough points, but they made it very hard to deny the claim that mages were naturally destructive and dangerous when left to their own devices. Her captor was just one more example in a long line-up of damning evidence. Just once Bethany would like to see an apostate who wanted to improve their lot without bathing the world in blood. As far as she could tell, her father had been the only one – Merrill had never paid any attention to mage politics, Anders was firmly on the ‘fire and blood’ side of the debate, and Bethany knew very well that she was incapable of helping anyone, even herself. If Marian had been a mage … no, she told herself, don’t think that: because, a), her sister really didn’t deserve that burden and, b), Marian was already radicalised enough. Still, she wouldn’t have been in this predicament. She’d have found a way.

Bethany could only try. Looking up at her captor and trying to appear as dejected as possible, she quietly said: “You’ve got a point. It’s … it might be the only way.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’d like to see my sister again, without a Templar watching us. Even if it’s just for a day. Maybe that’s impossible in my lifetime. Even so, I’d like to help make it possible for future mages. To be honest, I don’t have much to live for anymore either way. The Templars are already hunting me down, I’ve betrayed my sister’s trust … there’s nowhere I can go now. No one I can turn to. I think it’s time for me to stop living off other people.”

“Are you saying …”

“Yes.”

They spent almost an hour arguing about it. How peculiar! The murderer trying to convince his willing victim not to offer herself up. Bethany found herself in equal parts proud and disturbed at how easily, how eloquently she argued her part. She’d always known herself to be a terrible liar. Still, she supposed, the more strands of truth you weaved into your lies, the more convincing they became. After what she had done in the past twenty-four hours, she dreaded returning to the Circle – but even more so, coming face to face with Marian again. All her life, Marian had been right beside her, her sole succour and shield in life. Far above and beyond the … physical aspect of their relationship, their love had always been essentially _pure_ on an emotional level. Trust was central to that. Bethany had always known Bethany was a liar and a trickster, at least until she’d abandoned subtlety after the Blight, but she had never once lied to her. Neither had Bethany, at least not until this morning. Whatever had been between them, she had destroyed it. It’s for the better, Bethany told herself. Marian deserved a life free of having to worry about you. You’ve dragged her down long enough.

There was nothing comforting about the notion.

Once more, though, she’d have to rely on her sister, Bethany thought as her murderer unlocked her handcuffs. Her shoulder muscles burned when she finally got up and stretched her arms, and the Smite burn on her neck had never stopped aching, but she bore both stoically. He had also completely forgotten to cleanse her mana for the past hour, so that she had fully recovered. That would serve to her advantage.

“Are you … are you certain?,” the killer gently asked her.

“Certain and decided. Don’t try to argue me out of it,” she told him, then bit her lip. “Only … I’d like to send a message to my sister. I don’t want her to worry … or seek vengeance.”

After a brief moment of anxiety, he nodded and handed her his phone. “I trust you. Take your time.” And then she held the phone in her hands. This was it.

Bethany tried to alleviate her nervousness by carefully checking her signal strength – four bars – and pretending to take some time to find the messenger app. She hadn’t actually thought much further than this. How to compose the message? She glanced up at her captor, who had turned his back to her to make some preparations. She could … no. Maybe. She wouldn’t. She was not a murderer. But would he demand to see her message?

Quickly, she entered Marian’s number. For a text … after a moment’s hesitation, she decided to get the essentials out of the way quickly: _133 Spice Road, help_. Glancing up again, she added: _I love you. Betha_

“What the … give that to me!”

She whirled around with just enough presence of mind to press the _Send_ button. How had he gotten behind her? The shock of betrayal stood plain in his eyes, and he was wielding a very large kitchen knife. Bethany, in contrast, was unarmed, sleep-deprived, and still aching from her shackles. There was only one thing to do. She charged.[31]

With a quick gesture of her right hand, she ignited the air around it, formed a fist, and, charging at him, threw a flaming punch at the murderer. His hastily-raised Spell Shield absorbed most of the impact, but the remainder was enough to stagger him. By that time, however, Bethany’s left fist was also enveloped by fire, and this one she rammed right into his abdomen, singing his shirt. As he doubled over, she reached for his knife – if he could make blood flow, she was in trouble – and tried to wrestle it from his hand, but the murderer had caught himself and broke her grip on his wrist. Something hit her in the stomach, hard, and send her flying, and Bethany hit the opposite wall of the warehouse and collapsed against it, all the air knocked out of her lungs.

Gasping, she tried to scramble to her feet. “You … you lied to me! You bitch! I thought you were on our side!” She glared at him. To his feet, the remains of the Stonefist he had used against her  He was still holding the knife, holding it to his palm … Bethany reached out and sent a weakly Fireball at him. Though the blood mage deflected it without effort, it was enough to buy her some time as she scrambled to her feet.

“You want to start a war,” she accused him. “You’re going to get us all killed, you know that?” Whirling around, she cast another Fireball, stronger this time. “You don’t know Stannard. If you do this, Annulment will be the merciful option.”

Grinding his teeth, her opponent deflected her Fireball. “Better to die free than live a slave,” he proclaimed, gathering crackling lightning around his fingertips.

“I think I prefer to decide for myself, thanks.” That looked like Chain Lightning, how best to defend against that? Oh, damn it – _Fireball, Fireball_  … So long as he had to defend against her fire, she figured as the lightning bolt hit the ground two metres to her right, he would be too occupied to use blood magic …

The next bolt of lightning hit closer to her. She flinched, and before she could regain her bearing, a mighty push threw her off her feet. She gasped; though every bone in her body hurt, she did not have the breath to scream. Desperately, scrambling to her feet, Bethany glanced around the abandoned warehouse. No cover, no exits she could reach in time, nothing. The murderer was walking towards her, holding the knife firmly in his hand. “I will _not_ let you stand in the way of what we’re doing,” he growled. “You want to stand with the Templars? Fine. You can die with them!” That said, he swiftly drew the blade across his palm.

A thin trickle of blood gleamed on the knife, then rose into the air, and then suddenly there was more blood swirling around him in a sphere of crimson mist than could possibly have come from his body. Even from across the warehouse, she could feel the raw power, the unbound mana emanating from his living blood.

Unsteadily, Bethany rose and settled into a defensive posture. A moment’s concentration was all it took to make every cell in her body acutely aware of gravity; she would not be flung about like a ragdoll again. A small consolation when her opponent was using blood magic. He spread his arms. She cast Spell Shield.

She had expected another lightning strike. What she hadn’t expected was a small tugging in her chest, magical in nature but harmless on the surface. With some alarm, she cut short casting a Firestorm and focused her attention on that new sensation. Surely nothing this light could hurt her …? It took her a second or two to realise that a human could be killed just as easily by a burst artery as by a bullet in the head, and frantically she focused her magical energy on counter-acting the attack. “You can’t kill me,” she ground out between her teeth. “I’m your last chance at this ritual. You need my blood alive.” … did he?

He did not reply. Pink sweat stood on his brow. The tugging inside her chest grew into a sharp, sudden pain. Her mana was draining rapidly. How could she defend against this, if not by absorbing his spell? In her iron concentration, she barely registered her legs giving out under her. Somewhere in her head, an artery was ruptured by the stirring of the blood inside it. A drop of it ran down her nose. Just the faintest whisper, the promise of power … Bethany ground her teeth. _Magic serves that which is best in me …_ The pressure inside her chest intensified. Dangerously little of her mana remained; she could barely sense the Veil anymore. From hazed eyes, she glared up at her opponent. The youth’s face had turned into a mask of pained determination. He was clutching his palm to his chest. A puddle of dead blood surrounded his feet.[32] And yet, she realised, he could go on longer than her. Maker, she couldn’t die here, not now, not today, not with Marian angry at her! If only she had more power …

_Not_ that which is most base! With a furious roar, Bethany dropped her Spell Shield and focused all her mana into the ground beneath her opponent. _Fist of the Maker …_ for a tantalising moment, the blood mage appeared to be floating[33] ere, with all the force she could muster, she slammed him down upon the ground … But for just an instant, there was a gap in her defence.

Something _snapped._

She did not know which artery it was and, frankly, she didn’t care. If it was serious, she’d notice soon enough. The young man didn’t move. Bethany tried to stand up and settled for crawling towards the blood mage. She had never felt this weak before. She had no mana left, so she reached for the knife that had fallen to the ground before checking on her opponent. He lay sprawled out on the floor in his own blood, unconscious, yet breathing.

With a sigh of relief, Bethany rolled over to lie on her back beside the blood mage, closing her eyes. Regain her breath, take a moment to recover. Andraste’s blood, it was over, wasn’t it? There would be justice for Shari and Sally. She’d won …

A steel-like pair of hands closed around her throat, and a heavy weight descended on her waist. “You … will not … keep me from freeing us all …” Bethany gasped for air, instinctively reached for the hands on her throat, tried to claw them away from there until blood ran down her fingers, until her breath had turned into a desperate rattling as her vision darkened …

“No,” a cold voice said above the combatants. “But I will.” A gunshot echoed through the warehouse. The body above her twitched, the hands on her throat went limp, and Bethany found herself staring at bloody blonde hair and bits of skull as the blood mage slumped over her. She didn’t even have enough energy left to scream.

Someone rolled the dead or dying mage off her, helped her up and supported her as she was walked outside to the fresh, salty harbour air. She was sat down on a car’s backseat, handed a bottle of water. She took a few sips, coughing up half of it. Once her breathing had normalised somewhat, she rasped: “You have no idea how glad I am to see you, sister. If you hadn’t arrived when you did …” She opened her eyes and looked up in the cool blue eyes of Ser Cullen.

Bethany managed a wry smile as her heart sunk. “My … apologies. I was expecting someone else …” Looking around her, she realised that the abandoned warehouse had been swarmed by Templars, some of them in combat gear and heavily armed.

Cullen gave a nod towards the warehouse. “So … that’s our guy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll … make a full report as soon as I’m able. I might be in need of a healer, too, I’m bleeding internally …” She chortled. “I sure messed that up, didn’t I?” The killer dead instead of apprehended, a mage escaped from the Circle and severely wounded …

The Templar avoided her gaze. “He won’t kill again. That’s what matters.”

Bethany could not help but wonder if she was alright with that. Ultimately, the blood mage had been a frightened, desperate kid. Much like she might have been, perhaps. He hadn’t deserved death, but quite possibly it was better than the alternative. “Do you regret shooting him?”

“I … what?” Cullen paused to consider. “Only that I couldn’t take him in alive. Tranquillity would have spared his life.”

“No, it wouldn’t have. Death is better than that.”

Ser Cullen looked doubtful, but didn’t belabour the point. “If you say so. Still, I’m glad we arrived when we did.”

“How did you find me? I thought my phylactery was in Cumberland.”

“It was flown in last week, after … what happened at the hospital. Look, Hawke, I’ve been meaning to talk to you …”

The roar of an engine and screeching wheels interrupted him. A gleaming black Honnleath Clinton Vanquish had drawn level with the two Templar APCs in front of the warehouse. The door was slammed open before it had even come to a full halt and, like a force of nature, an Erinys jumped out of the driver’s seat, immediately training an assault rifle on Ser Cullen. Varric, Anders and Merrill stepped out of the car after her, but the Templars barely seemed to notice them in light of Marian Hawke’s overwhelming presence. At once, half a dozen barrels were pointed at her, a fact she barely seemed to register. “Where the fuck is my sister?,” she spat out at Cullen, who warily regarded the weapon in her hands.

“Messere, please step back and drop your weapon; you are infringing upon …”

“I’m here, sister,” Bethany called out with a sigh, unsteadily getting out of the backseat of Ser Cullen’s car. She had to lean on the door. “I’m fine. Reasonably fine, anyway.”

Ser Cullen stepped between them in what she thought was a protective gesture. Her sister glared at him. “Get out of my way …”

“Er, Ser Cullen, if we could have a minute?” The Templar hesitated, then nodded. He stepped aside, and a gesture from him was enough to make his comrades follow. Marian was at her side in an instant, drawing her into a tight hug-with-deadly-weapon. A rough hand burrowed itself in her hair as hot lips met hers, hungry, fearful. “Don’t you ever do something like that again,” Marian whispered as the kiss came to an end. She was shocked to see tears gleaming in her sister’s eyes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m alright. And … and … Maker, I’m sorry for lying to you. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this, and I should have told you the truth. I’m so sorry …”

Another kiss shut her up. For an instant, Bethany wondered what the onlookers might think about that. “I love you. When I got your message … just promise me you’ll stay out of danger from now on, alright?”

Bethany tried to smile. “I learned from the best. I just … I’m sorry Tevinter won’t work out for us. I really am. I’d have liked that.”

“It’s not too late, Bethany. Come, I’m getting you out of here. There’s nothing these Templar bastards can do to keep us, I’ll protect you …”

For  a moment she was tempted, before she realised just what Marian meant by that. “No,” she said, as firmly as she could manage, though welling tears choked her voice. She freed herself from Marian’s embrace, took a hesitating step back. “I love you, sister. I really do. But … my place is in the Circle.” She didn’t mention what she feared the most: that after today’s events, it was unlikely they would ever see each other again – or worse, that they would, but that Bethany would be unable to return her sister’s love. But there was no way she could allow Ser Cullen and his Templars to be killed for her sake, no way she could force her sister on the run for the rest of their lives, no way she could abandon her friends and apprentices in the Circle in their hour of need.

Her resolve was threatened by the dejected, forlorn look in Marian’s eyes. “I love you,” Bethany repeated, quieter. “Maker be with you.” With these words, she reluctantly stepped up to Ser Cullen. “I’m ready to leave,” she told him. “Let’s … let’s head back to the Gallows.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he gravely replied, his eyes trained on a Templar patrol car that had just come around the corner. “The Gallows are coming to us.”

The Templars stood at attention as Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard stepped out of the car. Nervously, Bethany glanced at her sister and Anders, both of whom had tensed. The knight-commander stopped in front of them, her arms crossed in front of her. “Serah Hawke. Why am I not surprised to see you at the scene of this crime?” Her glance fell on Bethany. “Knight-captain, restrain this apostate.”

“Over my dead body!,” Marian growled as Bethany already reached out her hands for the cuffs. Cullen took a step back, glancing back and forth between his commander and Marian.

“Please, sister, it’s alright …”

“No. I won’t let you take Bethany. You think I don’t know what happens with mages who don’t toe the line in Kirkwall? I’d rather kill her myself.”

“Sister …”

“Then you are a fool, Serah Hawke. Do you think we aren’t aware of the costs? It is easy for you to accuse us of cruelty when it is thanks to us that you, and everyone in Kirkwall, can sleep safely in their beds tonight …”

With an exasperated groan, Anders stepped between Hawke and Meredith, his heavy wrought oak staff in hand. Oh, Maker. Bethany paled. There was no way this could end well. “Are you quite done?,” he snapped. “We all know the time for debate has passed.”

Recognition flashed across the knight-commander’s face. “You … I’ve seen you before …”

Anders reached out his staff, pointed accusingly at the knight-commander. Had that crowd around the parking lot been there before? “What has happened here today is the last straw. Every time we have come before you to demand justice for your Templars’ crimes, we have been denied. And now, you attempt to justify your oppression by manipulating a blood mage into murdering innocents! This will not stand!”

“That’s preposterous …” the knight-commander began, but was silenced when Anders slammed the end of his staff into the ground. The sound seemed to echo across the harbour.

“We will no longer be denied! We will no longer be silenced! And we are _done_ begging for mercy where there is none to be had.”

Again, his staff hit the ground. “Templars, restrain this mage!” No one did.

“I am the Anders mage!,” the healer declared, and for just an instant, his eyes and skin appeared to glow a Fadely blue. “I am Justice! The time has come for mages to take a stand. To gain either liberty, or death.”

“Anders …” Marian gasped, mesmerised. “What have you done …?”

The staff hit the ground. “There can be no turning back.”

On the horizon, up in Hightown, the grand chantry lit up the sky.

 

 

_“This is the last post. As of today, we are at war. Liberty or death, Justice or Vengeance – for once, our fate is in our hands. Let’s keep it there.”_

– from _Die Gedanken sind frei,_ _ **[34] **_ posted by the_anders_mage

* * *

 

[1] You know where this is from. Yes, you do. You bloody well do! Also note that ‘Anders’ is not actually the man’s real name, but a nickname picked up from when he was a kid from the Anderfels (that is, an Anders) in a Fereldan Circle.

[2] This takes place in 9:34 Dragon. Bethany, thus, is 22 years old, which is a good year for being a protagonist and a terrible year for almost anything else. Marian is 25, which is almost as bad, but at least you’re halfway done with your 20s.

[3] Runes and glyphs are strictly speaking different things. A glyph is a magical symbol or combination of symbols, usually in ancient Tevene or Elven, whereas a rune is a glyph used to enchant an object. The study of glyphs, however, evolved around that of runes, meaning the terms are often used interchangeably and both are taken under the category of ‘runology’.

[4] Cullen is wearing No. 2 Service Dress, which consists of a white shirt with a stand-up or Mandarin collar, over which is worn a deep red tunic. The gilded buttons are engraved with the flaming sword of the Templar Order, the high standing collar has scarlet gorget patches with gold lacing in a figure-of-eight knot. Cullen’s rank of Knight-Captain is denoted by scarlet shoulder boards with three golden flaming swords each. The whole is complimented by a wide white leather belt with a gilded brass buckle, also engraved with a flaming sword in front of a sunburst and a quotation from Benedictions 4:10,  ‘Blessed are they who stand before the wicked / And corrupt and do not falter’, black trousers and black shoes (to be kept polished). Normally, officers wear a pistol and a ceremonial dagger at their hip. Swords are worn only with the more formal uniform variants. There is no prescribed headgear, but black berets are common in the Kirkwall chapter of the Order. It is a basic law of the multiverse that well-established oppressive paramilitary forces tend to have fetching uniforms.

[5] The olive green sergeant’s rank insignia only make it look more drab and shaggy. Think Jack Harkness, but scruffier.

[6] Fenris, who opposed everything that came out of Hawke’s and Anders’ mouths on point of principle, and Merrill, who generally accepted anything put before her without paying attention, cancelled each other out.

[7] Considering that Darkspawn tactics even during Blights have all the elegance and sophistication of a horde of shambling zombies, and often find themselves unable to deal with barbed wire and machine gun emplacement, modern Blights are not nearly as romantic as they used to be. Fortunately for teenage heroes with tragic backstories everywhere, people have discovered that ground-to-air missiles are not an effective long-term solution against Archdemons.

[8] Orzammar prides itself on possessing one of the most advanced armies in Thedas, with the Legion of the Dead now integrated into the royal army’s command structure. The dwarves quickly found, however, that tanks and heavy artillery are of limited use in the Deep Roads, and are itching to try them out on the surface. They generally find a dictator to overthrow somewhere, ideally in a country rich in natural resources, then proceed to create utter chaos for ten years before withdrawing in the secure satisfaction that fighting Darkspawn isn’t actually all that bad.

[9] Kirkwall actually has two harbours: the old harbour inside the bay proper, and the new harbour outside it. This division was necessitated by the discovery that modern container ships have trouble navigating between the Twins, on account of being wider than twenty metres. Civil right groups have still not gotten around to tearing down the slave statues, because national heritage.

[10] I just lost 98 per cent of my readers. (If you scrolled all the way down here, you can at least make the effort to call me a wicked sinner in your review or something like that.)

[11] Gamlen Amell’s ambitions were unfortunately cut short when he made some bad financial decisions about Qunari cheeses, namely, withdrawing his investment into young Mr Harold Qun’s venture shortly before Qun Qunari’s Cheesehouse conquered the Free Marches by storm. The Arishok, after tasting the franchise’s famous Qun Qamembert, reportedly told reporters he would “never speak of this again”.

[12] The story of Master Sha’illa and Aneitheral is legendary in some circles (mostly composed of the sort of people that spends their weekends playing videogames like Exalted Kings IV: Warlords of Arlathan or Thedas Universalis II and find Towers Age census records thrilling). Though it is only documented in two isolated lines in the -9th century Ancient Tevinter philosopher Sarenno Arterion’s _De Re Caseorum_ , a vast folkloric myth has developed around them. Master Sha’illa was said to be the greatest mage of his age, and king of Ythalla, whilst Aneitheral was his young, beautiful and cunning apprentice. When Aneitheral declared herself to be a greater mage than her master, Sha’illa responded to her challenges by performing ever greater feats of magic, culminating in eclipsing the moon and stars for eight nights and eight hours. On the seventh night, however, Aneitheral used the darkness of the unlit night to sneak into her former master’s bedchamber as he slept and create the illusion of a bright full moon and a starry night sky around him. When she woke him, he was astonished to find that she had ‘broken’ his enchantment, and marvelled to no end at how she had accomplished this feat. Aneitheral revealed her trickery and Sha’illa, humbled, fell in love with his former apprentice. (Because this is a Thedosian fairy tale, she proceeded to kill and dismember him, feed his remains to his children before also killing them, and take his throne. But it is said that she returned his love by the time she fell into her Long Sleep, so that’s very romantic.)

[13] Surprisingly enough, the members of <Silverite Griffons> fall neatly into the various stereotypes of MMO gamers. Warden-Commander Eleanor Cousland, Queen Consort of Ferelden, is the helpful elitist who will be the first to point out a mistake in your rotation or build and suggest more optimal ways of playing. King Alistair is the eternal noob who’s only playing because his significant other wants him to. Velanna is the single-issue wonk who spends more time writing pamphlet-length tirades on her issue of choice in /zone at the slightest opportunity than actually playing. When she does play, she is pigeon-holed into healing because Keepers are generally FOTM for healers. Oghren is the expert PvPer, who can hold an objective all by himself against two dozen enemy players and routinely shows up on leaderboards, but is also completely hopeless when it comes to killing mobs. Nathaniel is his complete opposite, being able to hammer out incredible DPS numbers on bosses, but losing his rhythm when the fight requires him to move around or (gasp) use CC. Sigrun spends most her time roleplaying, and hence has come to terms with being unable to play female characters, at all. And Anders is the guy playing the beautiful elf healer in the bikini who’s the reason for that.

[14] For a brief moment, everyone expectantly looked towards the door. Unfortunately, the forces of Narrative Causality are not all that strong in Thedas.

[15] “Order” has never been a concept easy to explain to Kirkwallers.

[16] While Kirkwall originally followed the principle of “One Man, One Vote” (he’s the man, so he’s got the vote), it is now a democracy of sorts. The viscount of Kirkwall is the head of state of the city-state. He is elected for life by the Patricians’ Council, and appoints a seneschal to lead the business of government for him, on the recommendation of the elected City Council. The knight-commander of the Gallows holds no more authority over the process than any other citizen, if said citizen was weighing a very large club in the shape of the largest military force in the country in her hands. In case you haven’t been paying attention, basically everything in this section is a rip-off of Sir Terry Pratchett’s City of Ankh-Morpork. Dumar may not be a Vetinari, but he’d very much like to.

[17] Kirkwall does not have a standing army. In time of war, citizens’ militias may be called up, but apart from that the city state relies on its law enforcement officers, who are equipped as paramilitaries, to defend the city. Kirkwall’s hinterland, meanwhile, is policed by the Viscomital Corps of Gendarmes and the Viscomital Vinmark Rangers, and there is a small coast guard. In addition, Kirkwall is one of the original signatories of the Starkhaven Accord of 8:98, which obliges all Free Marcher cities to come to the aid of another when attacked by a foreign power. This lack of a standing army makes the Commander of the Kirkwall City Guard, Aveline Vallen, the highest-ranked military officer in the country.

[18] Long form. Someone was bound to ask stupid questions.

[19] There is no institutionalised racism in the Templar Order. It’s just that, look, these helmets would be very uncomfortable to wear with elf ears and besides, wouldn’t it be better if elves had their own units for themselves so they could be amongst each other, and really they’re not exactly our kind of people.

[20] Fenris was normally the type of person who would read one book, ideally one with a lot of pictures and not too many words per page, several times in a row over the course of weeks, carefully keeping his place with a bookmark. In other words, he was functionally illiterate, through no fault of his own, and made every effort to try and change that. Unfortunately, he appeared to have reached the natural ceiling of his literary talents.

[21] Merrill is missing the joke here: dragons avoid hospitals. They are afraid of needles and other pointy objects, and for a good reason. The descendants of famous dragon-slayers tend to wield magical swords encrusted in gems and jewels, but most dragons are killed by plain, mundane swords that are bloody damn good at cutting things.

[22] A custom that usually evokes thoughts of “fascism”, but that is an injustice. _Stechschritt_ is a mark of discipline and bodily control more than anything else. More properly, the sight of goose-stepping soldiers should evoke thoughts of “damn glad I don’t have to do that, those poor sods look like they’re hurting”.

[23] That is the correct past participle of ‘to smite’. I know what you’re saying: “What, this is what I scrolled down to the endnotes for?!”

[24] Sure, Morrigan can turn into a bear, but what use is that? Velanna can hit people with pointy, er, roots, but what if she’s in a city or a building? Vivienne has a literal magesaber and can tank dragons, but she’ll get blood on her clothes. Dorian can command the dead to do his bidding, but what if there’s no corpses lying around (unlikely as it is)? Well, Bethany can _flay you with her mind_ , juggle your body around or crush you under your own weight, but she can also redecorate your living room without getting up, propel vehicles, and cheat at football. Force Magic is the applied mass effect, AKA biotics. The only reason we’re not playing Commander Hawke of the SSV _Denerim_ is that everyone who can do Force Magic seems to prefer using it to slam people into the ground and has a tendency to be possessed by Things with too many appendages.

[25] That is, money. Modern Tevinter is quite liberal about magic, as in, you don’t need it to be influential. Since the Corinthian Reforms of 8:69 Blessed, any Tevene citizen could, theoretically, become archon, after paying the prescribed registration fee of one million Dracons. Thankfully, no non-Magister has yet done so. This has nothing at all to do with the state-sponsored system of indentured servitude under which most non-mages and almost all non-humans live. Why, that would be discrimination!

[26] Ferelden manufacturer Honnleath Clinton continues to produce fine high-end cars – the _Vanquish_ is priced around 189,000 sovereigns – though Thedas’ noveau-riche elites now prefer sportive Antivan models by manufacturers like Naterro or Avancini, or any of the famously well-engineered Anders carmakers such as Horch, Estellon-Dies or Kaes. The richest of the rich drive – or rather, let drive – Orlesian cars by Rouleau-Riz. Those are the high-end and luxury brands, but most cars on Thedas’ streets are produced either in the Anders or Par Vollen. Marian cares a lot more about the car she’s driving than the clothes she’s wearing or the swill she’s drinking. Several City Guard officers have gotten into trouble for pulling over the scruffy veteran in the fancy car.

[27] A sandbank in the Waking Sea that barely surfaces long enough to plant a flag on it and has no natural resources.

[28] The author begs the honourable reader to willingly suspend their disbelief on this point.

[29] This is a metaphor, i.e., a lie. Attempting to describe the way mages perceive magic and the Fade is comparable to attempting to describe colour to someone who is not only completely blind, but also deaf, dumb and comatose.

[30] High Energy Magic (HEM) is a young discipline of study mostly practised by young and enthusiastic mages with bad personal hygiene but amazing scientific creativity. They are also surprisingly talented at gaining funding and modern facilities, at the expense of older, more established fields. And the Pratchett rip-offs continue!

[31] This does seem to be Bethany’s default approach to things. Cf. her attack on the Qunari at the Viscount’s Keep. Who’s a cute little Leeroy Jenkins, huh? That’s right, you are!

[32] Blood, as a resource, is expended in blood magic. Assuming that the blood is not transfigured into physical spell components of a sort (e.g. some sort of ‘magic particle’), conservation of mass suggests what is actually used to fuel blood magic is the life energy stored in blood. Hence, blood can be ‘depleted’ of life, which is also why blood magic can’t be done using the blood of corpses. Also note that blood / life is equivalent to mana, not a source of it, and an alternative way to connect to the Fade.

[33] He was, in fact, falling very slowly upwards. Gravity is weird.

[34] An Anders phrase meaning ‘thoughts are free’ in Common. The incipit of a well-known student song from the time of the Anderfels’ partition and reunification in the Storm Age, this has been the slogan of several revolutionary movements and set to music several times, most famously by Gustave Miller. Cf. youtu.be/ngwvs4G4b6M


	2. Appendix: A Brief History of the World for the Last Four Ages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is basically a pastiche of European Early Modern history. Sue me.

**Appendix: A Brief History of the World for the last Four Ages**

Preface from Fr. Ferdinand Genitivi (ed.), _From Blight to Blight – Readings in Thedosian History 5:24 Exalted - 9:30 Dragon_ , (Denerim University Press, 9:34 Dragon)

In the schoolrooms of this country and others, much emphasis has been placed on the so-called ‘history of great men’ (and, more rarely, women). On such occasions when even the most keen schoolmaster is hard-pressed to put a face and a name to an event or development, other forces are called upon, usually following the followers of Blessed Age economist and economic historian Friedmund Marcher (cf. _The Wealth and Poverty of Peoples: A Critique of Political Economy,_ Hossberg, 8:38 Blessed). And while the ‘great men’ theory of history has long been overturned, many of Marcher’s materialist perceptions still remain accepted.

Yet they have been joined also by more nuanced perspectives. In particular, the social revolution of the Blessed Nineties and the Dragon Noughties has spawned a new emphasis on ‘history from below’. One of the first major innovations was a new school of elven history, written mostly by actual elves, which re-examined ‘human’ history from an elven perspective (cf. Marethari Sabrae, _Far From Arlathan. A Secret History of Elven Thedas_ , Llomerryn, 8:98 Blessed). Other strands focused on the histories of the family, deviants, the environment, ideas, global connections between Thedas and, say, the New World, and, most recently, mages. The volume before you is an attempt to give as wide and varied a picture of the history of Thedas since the Fourth Blight as possible through a collection of primary sources. All sources have been carefully selected, annotated and introduced by experts in their respective subjects to be as accessible as possible to the general reader. First, however, an introduction to the history of Thedas after the Fourth Blight (5:12-24 Exalted) is in order.

After the Blight had ravaged the lands, the generally-accepted theory goes, such a large number of people had died in the Anderfels, Antiva, Rivain and the Free Marches that, from devastation, ironically followed a great economic upswing. Wages rose and with them a new demand for luxury goods. Antiva was the first centre of what would come to be known as the ‘Exaltation’. The period from about 5:30 Exalted to 6:50 Storm saw an unprecedented flourishing of the arts, revolutionary advances in the natural science, and a massive economic boom. Rivaini pirates accidentally discovered the New World – or, for the Qunari, Old World – though they soon discovered that the Qunari had abandoned the northern continent for good reason and no larger settlement took place until the Blessed Age. The introduction of print with moveable type by the Qunari – who barely disrupted the Antivan Exaltation with their unstable occupation, despite all attempts at suppression – only contributed to the Exaltations.

The Exaltations came to a violent end with the Twenty Years’ War (6:48-70 Storm), a Chantry-backed attempt by the Sacred League of Orlais, Nevarra, the Anderfels and most of the Free Marches to ‘free’ Antiva and Rivain from the Qun and return it to Andrastianism. Ironically backed by Tevinter and Orzammar, the northern nations put up a good and hard fight. After 22 years of devastation had wreaked havoc across most of the continent, and two minor plagues had compounded matters, the matter was finally settled in the Peace of Vyranthium, which established the political order of Thedas as we know it. Religious freedom was enshrined in the first amendment to the peace treaty, and all signatories agreed to hold inviolable each other’s authority within their own borders.

A second scientific revolution had coincided with the war. Not only did scholars all over Thedas for the first time enter into regular exchange (forming the so-called ‘Commonwealth of Letters’), it was also rapidly becoming fashionable among the gentry to possess a degree of scientific knowledge. New universities and academies were founded, contributing to the spread of knowledge, while advances in agriculture, trade and manufacturing increased production outputs and saw wealth pour into the coffers of the gentry. Additionally, as the productivity of agriculture rose and more and more people moved into the growing cities in search of labour, population counts exploded. Whereas the population of Thedas in 7:00 Storm is estimated at about 500 million souls and Qunari, it is now assumed to number at least three milliards. Finally, in 7:44 Storm the first cost-efficient steam engine was presented by Paragon Branka in Orzammar. Around the same time, increasing literacy, the development of an international capital market in Val Royeaux, the taming of the Felicisima Armada by King Peredo II of Rivain and the reopening of the Deep Roads between Orzammar and Kal-Sharok at a great cost of dwarven lives all contributed to what historians have come to call the Industrial Revolution.

With the scientific and industrial revolutions came a paradigm shift in politics. In 7:49 Storm, members of the lower and middle castes and casteless marched on Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter and demolished the Shaperate. This act, born from years of misgovernment, an increasing disparity between the rich and poor, costly wars on the surface, a feeling that the king had failed to support recent offensives by the Legion of the Dead and let the Deep Road to Kal-Sharok be beset by Darkspawn and a disastrous lichen famine the previous year, started the underground kingdom of the dwarves on a path that would lead to the deposition of Queen Valda Aeducan two years later and the establishment of the Commonwealth of All Dwarves. The Commonwealth conquered Kal-Sharok, but failed to clear much of the Deep Roads or reclaim many lost thaigs. Instead, it turned its attention to the surface, attempting to spread their revolutionary ideas to the other races. Despite celebrating many military and political successes and causing a number of human nations to embrace the ideas of ‘liberty, equality and property’, the Commonwealth eventually collapsed under the combined pressure of internal instability following the power-grab of celebrated warrior caste general Seweryn Kondrat and the victory of the Third Coalition at the battles of Jader, Perendale, and Ortan Thaig. House Aeducan was restored to the throne (though deposed for good in 8:03 Blessed) Nonetheless, the Dwarven Revolution was to shape political discourse and practise all over Thedas in the coming Ages.

At this point, our narrative leaves the Early Modern period and enters the early Modern period. The preceding three centuries had seen great upheaval. Social, cultural and economic changes that shook the very foundations of the pre-modern Thedosian world combined with wars – with the Qunari, with the dwarves, with itself – to make the Thedas of 7:70 Storm a very different place from that of 5:30 Exalted. On the upside, it had been centuries since the last Blight. The Grey Wardens still stood vigilant, but the Darkspawn hordes appeared to be defeated for good. Relations between Val Royeaux and Minrathous were also exceptionally warm, both Chantries united in a common hatred of the Qunari. For millions across Thedas, life was more comfortable, more sophisticated, and far less dangerous than it had been two or three centuries ago.

One more challenge, however, remained for the peoples of Thedas to face. In 8:56 Blessed, ultra-nationalist Parminius Areolani and his Tevene Restoration Front were swept into office in the Imperium. Within a few years, all opposition to his rule was eliminated, all elves enslaved once again, and the ban on blood magic lifted. In 8:59 Blessed, Tevene forces invaded the Anderfels. Nevarra fell the following year. Under Orlesian leadership, most remaining nations of Thedas entered a coalition, with only Rivain and the dwarves of Orzammar remaining neutral. Even the Qunari coordinated a renewed offensive against Tevinter with the southern push. This Great War was in many aspects novel – for the first time, aircraft were used as weapons, and both sides fully committed their mages – but the most distressing novelties were domestic. To support the massive war machines that had arisen, the warring nations organised their entire society and economy towards warfare. Carpet bombing and use of magic were played up in the propaganda of either side, and both Tevene and Southern Thedosian leaders considered the complete annihilation of the enemy the war’s objective. Finally, the Tevene forces collapsed under the overwhelming weight of the Allies’ numbers, but Areolani would not surrender until Templar commandos detonated an arcane weapon engineered by enchanters of the White Spire in besieged Vyrantium.

Tevinter surrendered quickly afterwards, and Areolani was burned at the stake in Val Royeaux. Still reeling from that humiliation, the Imperium was occupied by the Allies and former dissident politician Galba Corinthius installed as Archon. Under Allied pressure, a democratic constitution was established. The victors of the Great War, however, had also taken its toll on the Allies. In the middle of their recovery, the Dwarven Commonwealth occupied Ferelden, invited in by a claimant to its throne, and installed a puppet government in Denerim against the protest of a toothless Orlais. Orzammar’s politics had shifted heavily towards the right after the Second Dwarven Revolution, to defend against the threat of a Marcherite revolution among the casteless and lower castes, making the period from 8:70 Blessed to 9:15 Dragon an ideological contest between the liberal constitutional monarchies and Marcherite republics around the Orlesian Empire on one side and the highly nationalist, stratified Dwarven Commonwealth and its client Kingdom of Ferelden on the other. Though tensions have eased of late, it nearly came to war between Orlais and Orzammar when the former was overtly supportive of the Ferelden rebels under King Maric and Loghain Mac Tir. The consequences of the cold conflict between Orlais and Orzammar can still be felt most keenly here in Ferelden, though the Fifth Blight provided a welcome example of cooperation.

As this brief and, by necessity, highly selective overview of Thedas since the Fourth Blight reveals, these last four Ages have seen great changes in every aspect of life. The following texts, each with their own introduction, may help the reader shed light on some aspects of the period. I give special thanks to my esteemed colleagues Dr Frederickson of the University of Serault, who provided valuable advice on the culture of patronage in the Antivan Exaltation, Senior Enchanter Chartrand of the White Spire, who introduced me to the treasure-trove that are the Circle archives in Cumberland, my good friend Dr Pavus of the University of Vyrantium for explaining the intricacies of Storm Age imperial politics to me, and last but most certainly not least the redoubtable Miss Merrill Sabrae for providing me access to the archives of her clan and helping me sift through them. This volume would have been impossible to produce without their assistance.

_Genitivi_

_Denerim, 9 Pluitanis 9:34 Dragon_

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews will be much-appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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